


Passion Blooming

by whenitstarted



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bottom Will Graham, College Student Will Graham, Crushes, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Eventual Smut, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hannibal Lecter is Not a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is not the Chesapeake Ripper, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Older Man/Younger Man, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phone Sex, Pining, Professor Hannibal Lecter, Sexting, Shy Will Graham, Strained Relationships, Top Hannibal Lecter, Touch-Starved Will Graham, Will Graham Needs a Hug, Will Graham has a, he is just a handsome college professor, porn with a little plot, the strained relationship tag is not for will and hannibal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28063083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whenitstarted/pseuds/whenitstarted
Summary: Will wonders how a man could be more perfect than Professor Lecter, who seems to know exactly what to say to make him feel important. While touching, Will isn’t convinced this is a great idea for multiple reasons; the most pressing one being that if he had to pretend to be in a relationship with the older man, then surely his true feelings would become obvious to him. They would spend more time together, and while that sounds lovely and like a dream, Will doesn’t know if that’s the answer to this problem or his crush.“You’re my professor,” Will reasons, voice as weak as his attempted argument.Professor Lecter laughs, crinkles forming around his eyes and softening his face when he looks up at Will, for once taller now that the older man is sitting, “yes, and if I were to pursue you in actuality, it would be a bit of a toe over the forbidden line in the handbook. However, this is just an offer I am extending to a fellow unaccepted boy whose shoes I have once worn.”ORThe one where Will Graham is a TA and has a big crush on his college professor, who offers him some unorthodox help with dealing with his unaccepting father.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 112
Kudos: 311





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> hello !! this is my first fic in the hannibal fandom and i'm very excited about it ~ it was meant to be a longish oneshot with very little plot, but then i kept thinking of scenes i wanted to write about these two so now it is chaptered and a porn with a BIT of plot on the side
> 
> this is very self indulgent and includes all of my favorite tropes because i wanted to write something fun for my first go in this fandom, so i hope anyone who reads will enjoy this as much as i've enjoyed writing it so far !!

The clattering sound of rain pelting the windows and the side of the house is nearly as loud as the cheering coming from the TV — Sunday nights are meant for football, even if Will could not give even one shit about the outcome of the game playing on the screen. For years, he’s spent every chilly Sunday night during the fall and winter months sat on the couch with his dad, even if there isn’t a team playing that the older man likes.  
  
Now that he’s moved out on his own, that hasn’t changed. It just means he has to drive from campus to spend nearly four hours with his father, uninterested in the game and eating food that isn’t as good as he remembers it being when he was little, and then drive back in the dark once the night rolls to an end.  
  
Without fail, his father cracks open another beer — Will hasn’t been counting, but he knows he’s heard the familiar sound of a bottle cap popping off and clattering to the coffee table at least a few times in the two hours he’s been here.  
  
It isn’t that he hates spending time with his dad, more so that he wishes they had common interests and that conversation flowed a little easier. Oftentimes, Will sits on the opposite side of the couch daydreaming about the other things he could be doing with all this extra time, only zoning back in when his father swears or celebrates too loudly next to him; both of them all too welcoming to the silence between them.  
  
Will wonders if his dad even wants him to stay coming over on Sunday game nights, or if he’d prefer to eat his dinner and watch his game in peace — maybe without Will’s company, he wouldn’t feel the need to numb himself, beer after beer.  
  
Or maybe he loves Will and wants to spend quality time with his son, but never learned how to converse with a man who has more than _sports and beer_ as his personality traits; something Will cannot, for some unknown reason, fault the man for, though he would any other person subscribing to such a load of horseshit.  
  
When Will’s finished eating he leans back into the worn couch, kicking his socked feet up onto the coffee table, mentally preparing himself to sit there for about two more entire hours pretending he gives a shit if the Ravens win or not.  
  
“How’s your classes comin’ along?” His dad asks, mirroring the same position as Will just on the other side of the couch, beer still in his hand.  
  
“Good,” he responds back, autopilot, noticing that of course the conversation only begins when halftime does, “I’m keeping up with the workload pretty well this semester.”  
  
His father nods, eyes filtering between Will and the too-loud commercials now playing. Will wants to turn the TV down, but that would seem like an invitation for more conversation, though that’s likely inevitable — his dad will need to get through his rotation of the same three or four questions he asks every weekend; a strange quota to meet that maybe makes him feel like a good father.  
  
“That’s good,” he clears his throat, bringing his beer up to his lips to take a pull from it, “not workin’ too many hours at that coffee place?”  
  
“No, just part time still,” Will shrugs, eyeing the cushion between the two of them and praying that time will just speed up this once, spare him the rest of this borderline awkward evening. “It’s not too bad, and when it’s slow I can work on grading papers or homework.”  
  
“I still don’t see why you’d wanna spend your time gradin’ other kids' shit,” his dad sighs, shaking his head as though Will’s being taken advantage of — though that is certainly not the case.  
  
“Lots of professors have TA’s,” Will shrugs, dropping his eyes to his lap now, “I like doing it, Professor Lecter never gives me too much work. He’s aware of my schedule and takes it into consideration.”  
  
Will’s father takes another drink from his beer, switching hands after and wiping his palm over his jeans, “if you’re always workin’ or doin’ school, you’re not gonna have any free time. You’ll never find a relationship if you keep on pilin’ shit on your plate.”  
  
This conversation piece _usually_ is not one of the points his dad likes to hit — likely because it makes him uncomfortable or upset, Will’s not sure which, and he internally groans now that it’s been brought up again.  
  
Sighing through his nose, Will avoids eye contact, muttering, “it’s not like I’m looking for a relationship.”  
  
“You’re the only hope the Graham name’s got,” his dad’s eyebrows furrow, showing his age in the wrinkles in his forehead and around his eyes, “one day you’ll need to find a woman and settle down, carry on the name.”  
  
This time Will groans aloud, rolling his eyes so hard his head rolls too, thumping against the arm of the couch as he slumps further, “no matter how much work I’ve got on my plate, I can guarantee I won’t be settling down with a woman at any time in my life — something I’ve told you dozens of times now.”  
  
“You’re young still,” his father brushes him off immediately, as he typically does at this point in the argument, “you’ll realize when you’re older what you need.”  
  
 _A father who gives a shit would be nice,_ Will bites his tongue to hold back the fight from spiraling.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Will allows him just a quick moment to calm down, not wanting to fight with the old man next to him because then he will still have two entire hours left to be around him and that kind of un-comfortability seems unbearable.  
  
“Dad,” he starts, voice even and sure, “no matter how many times you bring up this conversation, it really will not change. I’m twenty, and I don’t think at twenty-five or thirty-five or— fuck, seventy, I’m going to miraculously wake up and just be into women. It’s something you're gonna have to get used to.”  
  
The silence that follows his soft outburst is enough to have anxiety creeping up Will’s neck; painfully aware that him just _being_ is a disappointment to his father, simultaneously craving his support and love whilst realizing he will likely never have either to the capacity he aches for.

Thankfully the game flashes back onto the screen with a highlight reel, which will cease any further conversation on the topic; or any other, for that matter. As if to spite the man sitting next to him, Will lets his thoughts drift to how the quarterback for the opposing team has muscles clenching and flexing with every move, how his arms, covered with dark hair and thick veins, could easily support lifting Will up and perhaps holding him against a wall.  
  
His thoughts don’t entice him enough to be indecent, the extreme sporty type not really to his tastes, despite the way his mouth waters a bit when the camera pans to the man offsides now, helmet off, and sweat beading down his neck.  
  
Mind falling down the hole of _boys boys boys,_ it doesn’t take long for his brain to flash him the image of sharp teeth, high cheekbones, dark eyes, and perfectly styled hair to accentuate all of those painfully gorgeous details.  
  
Perhaps the Professor he assists by grading assignments during late night work shifts has starred in a few daydreams of Will’s — and some less controlled, actual dreams as well.  
  
Will’s unsure of his type, mostly because of inexperience, but he thinks if he were to have one it would be elegant and charming. Broad and handsome. Well fitted suits and pointed shoes that cost more than Will pays in rent each month. He’s not attracted to the money — at least, he doesn’t think that’s it, but perhaps what the money does to the man; always presented sharp and confident, the air of authority combined with his deep voice and that _accent—_ _  
__  
_He thinks if he has a type it could be quickly identified as Professor Lecter.  
  
Making sure to keep his thoughts from straying too far into the gutter with his father sitting just beside him, Will allows himself a cozy daydream replaying the events from a few days prior when the professor had held open the door for Will, his free hand easily tucking in against the small of his back, warm and sure, as though that’s exactly where his hand should always be.  
  
Professor Lecter had kept his hand pressed against Will so tightly as they walked towards his office just down the hall from his classroom, surely something Will would not have needed help or guidance reaching, but the hand was welcome where it sat. For a brief moment, he’d even slipped his hand over Will’s soft sweater to tug him closer as a group of people turned down the same hallway, fingers curling around his hipbone as he steered the two of them in the right direction without creating an ounce of space between them.  
  
Well aware that his slight infatuation with the older man is nothing more than a school-boy crush, Will doesn’t often trouble himself with thoughts of relationships — the boys his age don’t appeal to him, at least of the ones he’s met through his classes, and he truly wouldn’t have time to spare if someone did catch his eye. Professor Lecter offers an easy fantasy for Will during the late hours of the night when he can’t find sleep, without any of the downsides of commitment.  
  
The butterflies that bat wildly in his stomach when he’s praised by the older man are also a feeling that Will wouldn’t want to part with; be it a seemingly offhand comment about something Will’s wearing suiting him, or a doting smile aimed down at him with obvious warm regard for him, Will quite likes the way it feels when Professor Lecter pays him any attention.  
  
All in all, it’s a win-win to Will, so long as he doesn’t harp on his growing feelings too much.  
  
Before too long, the game rolls to an end and his father is slurring his words enough to send the message to Will that it’s time for him to go. His father sees Will out, pulling him into a warm hug and tucking his head into his chest as he sways just a bit at the entrance to the house. The hand that ruffles the back of Will’s head is soft, nearly gentle, and his dad pulls him back enough to make eye contact, smiling warmly down at him.  
  
Contagious, Will smiles back, even if he knows that beer softens his father like nothing else ever could.  
  
“Ya know,” his dad drops his hands down to Will’s shoulders, separating them from the embrace, but keeping the two of them quite close, “I just— I love ya, kiddo. Your old man just wants what’s best for ya.”  
  
Conflicted, Will nods, raising his hands up to cover the large ones on his shoulders, prying them off so he can start walking backwards towards the door, “I know dad. I love you too.”  
  
“I mean it,” he sways, but catches himself on the wall near the door, “one day, you’ll look back on this shit and know I was right all along — but it’s okay, I’ll keep waitin’ for you to see—”  
  
“I gotta go,” Will interrupts, patting his pockets to feel for his keys as he turns and yanks open the door, calling over his shoulder an irritated, “see you next week.”  
  
His dad hollers something at him but Will’s already speed walked to his car parked on the street in front of the house, thankfully unable to hear whatever backhanded thing his father had to say next. He huffs as he tosses himself behind the wheel, taking as little time as possible to start the car and pull away from the curb. Angrily chewing on his lip, he debates if he should even show up next week or if he could just feign sickness or being too busy to get out of having another let down of a conversation.  
  
His dad can’t just — just pull him into a hug and tell him he loves him before saying goodbye. For some reason, that’s too difficult, though it’s the only thing Will finds himself wanting. Just reassurance. Unconditional love and support. It doesn’t feel like asking too much, though Will has never asked; it’s something that should come natural, after all.  
  
He stews in his anger all the way home, thudding his way up the stairs and locking himself into his room with the papers he’s got left to grade for Professor Lecter. It isn’t something that should calm him down, per say, but for some reason the simple thought of the older man has Will relaxing into the work, eventually calmed down enough to shut out the light and fall asleep — something that felt impossible in his anger just an hour before.  
  
  


* * *

  
  


_In his seat at the front of the class — always the front for this particular class, ever the mans own personal teacher's pet —_ _Will has every chance to pay attention and learn something during the lectures Professor Lecter holds. His notebook is sat in front of him, along with his laptop opened to a blank document just in case._ _  
_ _  
_ _Professor Lecter is wearing a deep navy suit today, though the jacket has already been pulled off and strewn over the back of his desk chair. Unfortunately for Will’s easily distracted mind, this leaves the older man in a crisp white button down with his sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, and his suits' matching waistcoat, artfully cinching his waist in and accentuating just how broad his chest and shoulders are._ _  
_ _  
_ _Will’s having a difficult time doing much else but ogle._ _  
_ _  
_ _The words on the board behind the professor’s head look like nothing — scribbles and formless lines, making it truly impossible for him to follow along even if he were able to pay attention._ _  
_ _  
_ _Will swallows roughly as Professor Lecter bends at the waist, hand propping himself up against his desk while he flips through a book. The veins in his arm bulge from the simple movement and Will feels a simmering in his lower belly._ _  
_ _  
_ _When he looks up again, Professor Lecter’s eyes find him easily, as if he can feel Will staring, and he flashes him a grin that exposes the sharp ends of his teeth_ —  
  
Will wakes into the dark of his room, groaning at the immediate notice of his hard on pressing into his mattress. While not the first time he’s woken sweaty and hard from a dream about his professor, Will finds himself a bit annoyed that he didn’t even get to have a full on dirty dream about the man before waking up aroused. He’d been in class, teaching — something Will witnesses nearly every single day of the week.  
  
His subconscious imagination has failed him, so much so that he could scream at the loss of opportunity.  
  
Now awake with no chance of going back to sleep until he’s sorted out his pressing issue, he sighs and rolls off of his stomach and onto his back, cheeks hot with embarrassment as he slips a hand down the front of his briefs, eyes shutting once again to paint a more filthy picture.  
  
One where Will is staying after class with Professor Lecter in that same devastatingly sharp navy suit his brain dreamed up, only this time he’s straddling the older man’s lap and watching as his professor curls his much larger hand around his arousal. He thinks of what he may say to Will — surely he’d praise him while he touched him expertly, wanting to bring Will over the edge quickly because of how dangerous doing something so wrong in the public space of his own class is.  
  
He doesn’t last long; his imagination’s Professor Lecter pressing open mouthed kisses against his throat while he compliments him, arm pumping him just right — Will shudders as pleasure rolls through his body in little waves, toes curling as he comes and snaps his eyes open, daydream instantly gone from his mind as he pants against his sweat damp sheet.  
  
Grimacing as he pulls his hand out from his underwear, Will debates just wiping his hand off on his already precome stained briefs but eventually decides against it because of the likely disgusting feeling that would be in the morning to deal with when he wakes again.  
  
The hardwood floors are chilly when his bare feet touch them, and Will quickly misses the warmth of his bed. He’s quick and quiet as he moves down the hall to the shared bathroom, thankfully empty because of the time of night, so he’s able to slip in and wash his hands without being caught by his roommates with come sticking halfway up his forearm.  
  
He falls asleep uncharacteristically fast, thankful for the orgasm to send him back into a this time, dreamless sleep — something he’s thankful for in the morning, considering he’s off to pick up coffee for himself and Professor Lecter first thing and isn’t sure he would be able to face the older man after having gotten off to the thought of him doing hardly nothing at all _twice_ in one night.  
  
Thankfully the guilt never hits Will and he wakes up refreshed and filled with his usual nervous excitement to see his professor, lingering thoughts of him from the night before assaulting him on occasion as he readies himself for the day, but it’s nothing to slow him down in his quest to get out the door on time to retrieve the same iced coffee he’s been bringing Professor Lecter for the last month or so every morning before class.  
  
He doesn’t think about how such an act is an obvious display of his puppy-crush on the man, because the look of fondness it always earns him is enough to sustain Will for an entire day, he thinks.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
While stepping out of his car, Will gently sets his own coffee on the roof so he can duck back inside and grab Professor Lecter’s as well, slinging his backpack over a shoulder as he does so. Hands full, he takes a step back and raises his leg, using his foot to kick the door closed. Once again fumbling, he balances both coffees enough to tap the button in his pocket to lock the car, just as he’s greeted by the most welcoming interruption to his usual morning struggles.  
  
“Hello Will,” Professor Lecter says from just off to the side of him, causing Will to turn sharply and nearly drop both of their drinks in his eagerness.  
  
“Good morning, Professor,” Will replies, flustered and surprised. It isn’t often he sees the older man before they’re in class, or his office. He doesn't even attend his class on Monday's, so this is an enjoyable change.  
  
“Would you like a hand?” He asks, already taking long strides off of the pavement in Will’s direction.  
  
“Oh, that’s okay,” Will shakes his head, despite the fact that Professor Lecter is already so close, an eyebrow raised as he takes in Will’s appearance. “This one’s for you, actually.”  
  
Professor Lecter’s eyebrow slowly drops, his eyes softening and lips turning up just so — Will’s heart beats erratically and he hopes he isn’t blushing too terribly, though it’s inevitable with the warmth the older man is aiming directly at him.  
  
“Thank you,” he reaches a hand out now, long fingers open and ready to curl around the drink Will’s offered to him, accepting his little treat as he always does. The tips of his fingers caress lightly against Will’s as he takes the drink, and Will feels his heart leap at the small contact. “If not for you, I fear I’d be useless by noon.”  
  
Smiling, Will looks up to the man who is seemingly waiting for him. He readjusts his backpack strap over his shoulder and switches his own coffee to the other hand, taking a tentative step towards his professor. “I don’t think you have it in you to be useless, coffee or not.”  
  
Professor Lecter turns when Will is beside him, tipping his head towards the entrance across the parking lot in an indication that they will be entering the building together — walking the length of the whole student parking area side by side, igniting Will’s nerves.  
  
“You think too highly of me, then,” Professor Lecter jokes, turning warm eyes to Will as they fall in stride together. “How was your weekend, Will?”  
  
An immediate irritation simmers in Will’s belly, thinking back to just last night at his father’s house and how he’d been left to feel uncared for yet again by the only person in the world that is _supposed_ to do the opposite.  
  
Instead of spouting his true thoughts at the man who is likely just trying to be polite, Will shrugs, “it was fine,” he says, hoping it comes out as genuine, “how was yours, Professor?”  
  
The man’s eyes linger on his face as they walk, long enough for Will to feel self conscious; he lifts the straw of his drink and ducks his head, taking a sip of the too-sweet coffee, sugar flooding his mouth pleasantly.  
  
“Mine was quite nice,” Professor Lecter eventually replies, turning to look forward once again, “I hosted a dinner party Saturday evening and spent much of yesterday securing my garden for the winter.”  
  
Will can picture the older man having mature hobbies like the ones he’s said to him in passing conversations; it’s easy to imagine his professor gardening and cooking elaborate meals, inviting established, elegant people he considers friends over to his likely lavish home, a flute of champagne in his long fingers — Will can visualize it so easily, it’s almost as if he’d been there himself.  
  
“What did you do with your free time?” The man presses, though he doesn’t look back to Will as he asks.  
  
Will’s never sure if the man is just being polite and making conversation, or if he has any actual curiosity about Will’s life outside of the classroom.  
  
“Saturday I don’t think I even left the house,” Will admits, a gentle shrug as he tips his head up to watch the professor’s profile as he speaks, “mostly just studied — Beverly came over and we ended up passing out in the living room in the middle of watching Top Chef.”  
  
Will leaves out the fact that they’d put back nearly an entire bottle of wine between the two of them, both loose and giggly as they’d snacked on cheap top ramen and pringles. It’s not at all distinguished enough to disclose to a man in a three-piece suit on a Monday morning.  
  
“Oh, Miss Kats?” Professor Lecter asks, looking down towards Will once more as he nods, “that sounds like a lovely way to spend an evening — I am not one for much TV, but I do enjoy cooking shows.”  
  
“Didn't you say you cook a lot?” Will asks, though he already knows the man does, he doesn’t want the conversation to lull even a bit, “you’re always bringing things in for lunch that you’ve made, all like, gourmet and fancy.”  
  
Professor Lecter laughs a short little sound, winding Will’s heart up tight as he does so, “yes, cooking is one of my passions. One day I’ll keep you for lunch and have you try something I’ve made, hm?”  
  
 _One day I’ll keep you._ _  
__  
_Will swallows the sudden mouthful of saliva that has nothing to do with the promise of food and all to do with the idea of spending more time with the older man alone, being _kept,_ even if not the way his mind would like to spin the word.  
  
“Only if it wouldn’t impose,” Will shakes his head, nervously looking to his feet, “I don’t want to take up even more of your time, I’m already in your office enough to drive you crazy.”  
  
The two of them step in sync up the curb, now closing in on the building's entrance, much to Will’s displeasure — soon they’ll be near his classmates and teachers and he won’t have Professor Lecter’s undivided attention.  
  
“Yes, having you sitting quietly on my couch grading papers to help me is truly maddening,” the older man turns his smile down at Will, the sharps of his teeth just barely exposed; enough for Will to want to trace his tongue along them. “You’ve never been a burden, Will. I think I could trust you alone in my office; something I wouldn’t say about any of my other students.”  
  
Warmth wraps around Will’s heart and clogs his throat — he’s never burdened Professor Lecter, he’s trusted by Professor Lecter, he’s held to higher regard by Professor Lecter.  
  
Suddenly unthinking, and craving the feeling of being special, Will asks, “what about your past assistants?”  
  
A fond look is offered to Will; warm eyes and a newly soft smile as the older man shakes his head, cocking his eyebrow just before he turns his attention away, “my trust in you is more than I’ve had for anyone I’ve taught; assistant or no. You’re quite the cunning boy, Will.”  
  
Heat — immediate heat nearly paralyzes Will as he stumbles over his next several steps to keep up with his long-legged professor. Really, the man is feeding into Will’s fantasies without even meaning to, the praise combined with the soft, tender look he’d directed at Will is enough to have his heart hammering once again, forcing a hard swallow as his crush swells even more.  
  
“Thank you,” he manages to say, avoiding his professor’s eyes though he can surely feel the way they’re now boring into his profile, “I’m— I’m happy to have earned your trust and, uh— yeah,” he stammers off as they approach the entrance door, Professor Lecter pulling it open and motioning with his hand holding his coffee for Will to enter first.  
  
Aware of the man now walking through the double door entrance just behind him, Will tries his hardest not to trip or look stupid when Professor Lecter has nowhere else to look but at his back directly in front of him.  
  
It’s a quick few steps until the older man is saddled up beside him again, the wide hallway allowing them room to stand side by side as they walk in the direction of his office — Will always stops by there bright and early on Monday's, wanting to be sure not to miss the man before he goes off to class. This time, he was just lucky enough to be early enough to arrive with Professor Lecter.  
  
“You should think more highly of yourself, Will,” Professor Lecter’s deep voice is softer now that they’re inside and it feels like every word is hushed directly into Will’s ear, “not many students as young as you are offered the position you’re in, that alone is something to be proud of.”  
  
Shy and unsure, Will shrugs.  
  
Sighing softly, his professor’s free hand comes up to clamp around his shoulder, squeezing there gently as he mutters, “I suppose I can just be proud enough for the both of us, hm?”  
  
Now surely flushing at even the _idea_ of this distinguished, charming man being proud of him, Will turns his head up to look at him as they round the corner that his office is tucked into and finds the man not looking at him — paying attention to the activity in the hall as to not run the two of them into anyone.  
  
“You’re,” Will swallows, blinking up at Professor Lecter’s sharp angled profile, “you’re proud of me?”  
  
Without missing a beat, the older man’s eyebrows pinch into a slight frown, “immensely proud, yes. You’re doing extremely well in your classes, all while keeping up with your duties that I’ve given you, and working part time. Of course I’m proud of how well you’re doing, Will.”  
  
Something inside Will sings at this — it’s so simple, but exactly what he wants to be told. To hear it from a man that Will not only looks up to as an educator and a mentor, but from a man he’s harboring a school-boy crush on, has Will tingling from the tips of his fingers to the top of his scalp. When the hand drops from his shoulder to reach into his jacket pocket to retrieve the key to let them into the office, it drags across Will’s slight shoulders as Professor Lecter pulls away, slow and purposeful and Will just barely doesn’t shiver.  
  
“Thanks, Professor Lecter,” he breathes, following the man into his office and inhaling the familiar scent of expensive cologne, more sharp in this room than it ever is on the man himself, and lets himself calm down. He breathes in deep, eyes slipping closed for just a moment — a moment that has his brain fighting off the image of the empty couch Will often occupies while his professor sits at his desk, instead painting the picture of himself spread out on that couch, the older man above him in that half pulled off blue suit from his dream last night—  
  
“Will?”  
  
His eyes snap back open and he shuffles a bit on his feet, thankful not for the first time that mind-reading isn’t possible. Will meets the older man's gaze with a look that he hopes resembles innocence; innocence that betrays his thoughts from just a moment ago.  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Are you alright?” The genuine concern in his voice has Will nearly stepping closer, crumbling against his broad chest. Professor Lecter starts unbuttoning his winter coat, and for a fearful moment Will panics, stupidly hoping his suit is any color other than navy. “You seem tense this morning, did something happen over the weekend?”  
  
Swallowing as his eyes subtly track the movement of those long, delectable fingers popping open buttons, Will shakes his head, “I’m okay.”  
  
He sighs aloud when the suit is brown and the jacket is plaid; decidedly not navy blue.  
  
“Would you like to talk about anything with me?” He asks instead of allowing Will to brush off his worry. His wrist raises and the professor looks to the no doubt expensive watch, “we unfortunately do not have much time right now, but I’ll be free after my last class today.”  
  
Something in Will tells him to brush it off again; reassure the man that he’s fine, or that he’s just tired. It’s the easy route, after all.  
  
Another, louder part of Will is screaming at him to accept the offer so sweetly being presented to him. It’s more time with a man he craves attention from, it’s an opportunity for him to open up even further to someone who seems to care — not that Beverly or even his roommates Jimmy and Brian are awful to talk to, but he’s always holding back from the complete truth with them, through no fault of their own.  
  
Before thinking too hard like he normally does about everything else, Will gnaws on his bottom lip, peeking up at his professor, “I don’t want to intrude on your time—”  
  
“Haven’t I just told you that you’ve never been a burden to me?” He asks, voice soft and eyes softer, “I would not have offered an ear to listen if I did not intend to do just that; I’m not fond of seeing you troubled.”  
  
Swallowing, “if you’re sure— okay. But if something comes up or you have to leave—”  
  
“I promise,” Professor Lecter interrupts him, something he often doesn’t do but has just done _twice,_ in his efforts to reassure Will, “I will not leave. I will be here or in my classroom. Come find me, you know my schedule sometimes better than I do, after all.”  
  
With the promise of conversing with Professor Lecter in a more private manner — something Will has had the pleasure of doing many times over the last few months of assisting the man with grading assignments — Will feels a bit of anxious butterflies in his stomach, knowing he still has to get through his regular day while trying not to overthink for the next several hours.  
  
Nodding, Will flips his backpack around to his front so that he can unzip it, swapping the stack of assignments he’d graded over the weekend over to Professor Lecter’s awaiting hand, suddenly more shy than usual. It isn’t that he isn’t used to speaking with the older man privately, just that they’ve never set up a time for an assigned meeting before. Forcing himself to meet the older man’s eyes, Will tries to offer a smile but can feel that it isn’t genuine as he does it.  
  
“I believe I will be in my office rather late tonight,” Professor Lecter says, clearing his throat, “so if you do happen to be busy or running late, just look for me here.”  
  
Swallowing, Will nods once more, wondering already if it’s worth it to show up at all, “okay.”  
  
The two part ways to go about their business, and the entire way to his first class of the day Will tries to talk himself out of going to meet with the professor — it isn’t as though something tragic has even happened, he only got into a little disagreement with his dad. It’s irritating and hurtful, but not something he should be confiding in his college professor about, surely. The offer is certainly thoughtful and lovely, doing nothing but fuel the fire that is Will’s interest in the man, but his attraction can’t go much further without becoming inappropriate anyways; it’s probably best to think up an excuse to get out of it altogether.  
  
Will barely pays attention all through his first lecture, too wrapped up in his own thoughts.  
  
During breaks in between classes, Will and Beverly meet up and get a box of tacos to split from the truck just a few blocks down from campus, as they often do, likely far too often throughout the week to be healthy. The two of them walk back and sit on a concrete bench, taco box between them and sauces split evenly.  
  
After telling Beverly about his weekend at his dad’s, he contemplates telling her about his supposed to be meeting with Professor Lecter — his crush is well known amongst Will’s friends, and he’s often being made fun of for his taste in men ever since he drunkenly admitted his attraction, though their teasing never crosses a line and Will knows they won’t truly judge him.  
  
He knows Beverly would be the first to urge him to go to the meeting, likely doing so while mentioning something about Professor Lecter’s Huge Professor Dick.  
  
Will doesn’t want to be told to go — he doesn’t know what he wants, but if he decides to meet him then he thinks it should be his own decision.  
  
So instead of bringing up his inner troubling's, Will lets Beverly shit talk his dad for being an asshole as usual for a bit before changing the subject to their upcoming long break for Christmas — it’s still eight weeks away, but it's something Will's personally been looking forward to, more so than the small breaks sprinkled in between now and Christmas. It also works as a lovely distraction for Will’s mind to stop thinking so much and just listen to Beverly chatter away excitedly.  
  
“Speaking of holidays,” she mumbles around a mouthful of taco, “are you guys going to do anything for Halloween?”  
  
Will shrugs, “I don’t have any plans, no.”  
  
“We’re kind of sad,” Beverly deadpans, shaking her head, “you’d think after two full years we’d have made some connections by now.”  
  
Will laughs, opening his water bottle to soothe the spicy burn from the sauce, offering, “I don’t want to dress up but I wouldn’t turn down getting shit-faced at my house with you guys?”  
  
After a moment's pause and another half a taco shoved into her mouth, Beverly shrugs, “I can get down with that.”  
  
Truthfully, Will’s been too busy and uninterested to even think about the upcoming holidays, only looking forward to Christmas for the break it will give him from classes, but with Halloween seemingly taken care of and planned for, Will thinks that’s about as far in advance as he can plan for at the moment.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The sun is already down by the time Will is walking down the hall to meet Professor Lecter — it’s not quite late, the sun setting far earlier because of the season already, but he had put off seeing the man for as long as he could just out of sheer nerves. He reminds himself as he approaches the door left cracked just the tiniest bit open that Professor Lecter had asked him to come by, and that he had seemed so genuine. He’s never made Will feel anything negative before, and he doesn’t think that he would start now after knowing Will the past two months.  
  
He cracks the door open wider, popping his head in and gently knocking against the wood to get the older man’s attention.  
  
“Professor?” He asks, eyes lingering on the man sat behind his desk, typing away at the computer.  
  
“Will,” Professor Lecter smiles, eyes flicking up to look at him still stuck halfway in the door, “come in. You may close that for privacy if you like.”  
  
Pushing the door open, Will breathes in the scent of this familiar room — a warm, comforting smell in a happy place that has no damaging memories associated with it. His professor continues typing, not sparing Will even another glance as he enters the room, gently clicking the door shut behind himself.  
  
“If you’re busy—”  
  
“Hush,” Professor Lecter lets out a breathy chuckle, aiming a pointed look at Will, “I was just finalizing an email, I am certainly not busy. How was the rest of your day?”  
  
Setting his backpack down in one of the leather chairs in front of the desk, Will paces slowly, looking mostly around the room instead of at the man speaking to him. “It was fine. Pretty typical.”  
  
Will hears the creak of the desk chair and looks, watching as Professor Lecter leans back, crossing an ankle over his knee, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose — he’s incredibly distracting looking like that. The lighting inside is low; the usual natural light flooding in through the windows is gone, leaving the two of them illuminated by the wall sconces and the one lamp on the computer desk. The shadows casting over his face have Will nearly mesmerized, having to remind himself he should probably blink.  
  
“What was troubling you this morning did not have an affect on your day?” Professor Lecter asks, and Will feels his cheeks heat in a blush, though of course he couldn’t have avoided the topic forever — it’s why he was invited here in the first place.  
  
“I’m fine,” he shakes his head at the floor, “really— you’re nice to worry about me, but it’s not… it’s something I’ve gotten used to dealing with, I guess. I’m not sure why I was more bothered this time, but I really am okay.”  
  
“I’m glad to hear it,” the man nods, eyes not leaving him for even a second, “but sometimes talking about things with an impartial person can do some good.”  
  
Will grins at his professor from across the desk, “are you impartial?”  
  
A smile twitches at the corners of his lips as he adjusts in his seat again, dropping his legs so both feet are on the floor, thighs parted and fingers lacing together over the dark wood of the desk — Will thinks he can feel a shift in the air from just the change in posture, the man no longer relaxed back in his chair; instead he’s all sharp angles and confidence.  
  
“I can be, if that would help you feel better.”  
  
Will swallows, “I don’t know that you’ll be able to make me feel better, Professor Lecter.”  
  
One of the man’s eyebrows quirks up, challenged.  
  
Sighing, “it really isn’t a big deal, I just got into a— a fight, I guess, with my dad. I’ve been thinking about it more than usual is all.”  
  
His expression doesn’t change, but he nods, as if waiting for Will to go on; not pushing for more, but wanting it all the same.  
  
“He just— he said some things. About me being too young to know what I want,” he’s vague, unsure where his professor would fall in this particular argument and afraid that it would perhaps not be on his side. “He can’t have a normal conversation with me, but he can try and tell me all the ways I’m screwing my life up and it— it just irritated me and it carried over into today.”  
  
There’s a pause in their conversation, one that has Will waiting with a bit of baited breath, unsure if he should be more specific or just leave it at that — though this way makes him worry that the extremely professional man who’s opinion he cares about deeply will start to think of him as immature and silly, that could be the better option.  
  
“What is your relationship with him like?” Professor Lecter asks, unlinking his fingers and dropping his hands to his thighs, posture changing to something so inviting that Will would love to just crawl into his lap. “You are an only child, correct?”  
  
Will nods, brushing a stray curl out of his eyes as he turns — somehow he’d started pacing again without noticing.  
  
“He’s the only family I have,” Will mutters, unhappy to admit such a thing aloud, “he’s always provided well and took care of me — I don’t remember my mother, but I know she was around for a few years of my life when I was little.”  
  
“So your father worked hard to provide you with a good life, growing up?” He asks, and Will hates the way the conversation looks to be turning; he’s aware that his dad was a single father who worked long hours so Will could have food on his plate and a roof over his head. He knows that. It isn’t just about what you can _give_ to a child, but it makes Will feel selfish to bring that up.  
  
“Yes,” he nods, biting into his bottom lip.  
  
“I would imagine that left you alone quite a bit,” Professor Lecter says, and Will nods again, staring at his shoes as he slowly walks back and forth in front of the desk. “Do you feel like your father could have done more for you?”  
  
 _Yes,_ his brain screams, _he could have tried harder._ _  
__  
_“He did his best,” Will says instead.  
  
“And you resent that?” Professor Lecter asks, eyes on Will as he marches, “resent that his best was not enough for you, but you could not ask for more?”  
  
He pauses his pacing, looking over the desk to the man who only knows him on a surface level — a man who knows him only as a student and his dedicated TA, and he seems to understand so easily without Will spelling it out for him.  
  
“Yes,” Will swallows, ducking his eyes again, “I’m angry he didn’t try harder to know me. If he had tried— if he had tried even a little bit to bond with me, then maybe we’d have a healthy relationship now.”  
  
“I see,” Professor Lecter nods, once again pushing his glasses back up, “tell me what your argument was about, Will.”  
  
“It’s—” Will bites his lip, shaking his head, “it’s personal, and I’ve already unloaded so much of my crap on you—”  
  
“You mentioned it to be a recurring exchange,” the man interrupts Will, holding eye contact in a way that makes Will feel warmed from the inside out, “while you do not have to tell me if you are not comfortable, I cannot advise to holding onto your problems long enough that they arise to continue hurting you in the following days.”  
  
Will drops his eyes, unable to keep on looking into the genuine warmth he finds there because part of him feels like it could make him cry.  
  
“My dad wants me to make more time in my life so I can find a girlfriend and settle down to carry on the Graham name,” Will says softly, cheeks hot and throat tight, “he ignores the fact that I’m gay and tells me I’m just young and stupid, that I’ll just grow out of it and thank him when I’m older— I don’t know what he wants me to thank him for. I just— he doesn’t care about me enough to try and connect, but he thinks he can tell me who I am is wrong and I’m just... just—”  
  
“You’re hurt,” Professor Lecter offers, and Will nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat and dropping his head down. “Will, come here.”  
  
He doesn’t — he stays where he’s at across the desk from the older man, eyes closed against the burning he wishes would go away.  
  
The chair creaks again, and soon there’s a comforting hand rubbing across his shoulders and up and down his spine. Physical contact isn’t something Will is used to, and rather than soothe him, it has him crumbling, raising his own hands to hide his face from the embarrassment of Professor Hannibal Lecter seeing him cry.  
  
“Shh,” he hushes, curling his arm around Will’s shoulders and pulling him in, tucking his face into his chest and keeping him close, “it’s alright.”  
  
Will breathes in deep against his professor’s shirt, his cologne a familiar safe for him to cling on to, eventually relaxing into the hold and turning so his cheek is squished against Professor Lecter’s firm chest. He uses the hand not tucked between their two chests to wipe his eyes dry, throat still sore with emotion.  
  
“Would you like my advice, Will?” The older man eventually asks, voice pressed against the top of Will’s head close enough that he could kiss him there if he wanted to.  
  
He nods against the expensive fabric of his professor’s shirt, upset to have let himself cry into it and wet it with his tears, “okay.”  
  
“Your father needs to see you happy,” he rumbles, hands still stroking up and down Will’s back, “he needs to see that his son can be happy being himself.”  
  
“He doesn’t care if I’m happy,” Will argues, voice raw from unshed tears.  
  
“You don’t think?” His voice raises, as if surprised, “perhaps he just cannot wrap his head around it yet. Have you ever introduced a boyfriend to him before?”  
  
Heat flaming his cheeks, Will closes his eyes against further embarrassment, “no.”  
  
“Are you seeing someone now?” He asks, slowly swaying their bodies back and forth.  
  
“No,” Will almost laughs — his single status hasn’t changed once through college, and he hadn’t let himself entertain the idea of _boys_ at all throughout high school.  
  
“Really?” More surprise, as he gently peels Will off his chest. He keeps them very close still, hands now curled around Will’s upper arms, thumbs moving in soft little comforting circles as he cocks his head, “I had assumed otherwise.”  
  
“I don’t think it would really matter,” Will shrugs, but makes sure to keep the movement small so Professor Lecter won’t read it as him trying to shake his grasp away, “I could bring home the perfect guy and my dad would still tell me it’s a mistake — I’ve been dealing with this for years now, Professor.”  
  
“Well,” Professor Lecter’s eyes search Will’s out, open and kind, “I consider myself to be quite well versed when teaching lessons, if you think—”  
  
Will huffs an ugly laugh, one mixed with tears that has him raising a hand to cover his face again, smiling at his professor through his fingers, “I’m not convinced my dad getting a strongly worded email about my queerness from my college professor would sway his mind.”  
  
Without seeming to miss a beat, the older man smiles down at him, raising a shoulder up in a little shrug, “use me, then.”  
  
And— “what?” Will asks, confused, because with the way the conversation had been going, it sounds almost as if his professor is suggesting—  
  
“It would not be a bother to help one of my best students,” he explains, though that just bewilders Will even further.  
  
“Professor Lecter,” Will whispers, acutely aware of the big hands still enveloping his arms, still soothing his tears away, “before I make a fool out of myself, what exactly are you offering here?”  
  
“Myself,” Professor Lecter says, easy and honest sounding. He drops his hands from Will’s arms, a slow drag of his fingers down the length of them before breaking away at his wrists. Spinning on his heel, he walks calmly back to his chair and Will is hopeless but to follow. He rounds the desk and stares wide eyed at the man, waiting for any explanation — the one he gets comes with another simple shrug, “use me, Will. Bring me around your bigoted father under the pretense of us being in a relationship so he has the opportunity to see and understand your proclivities without judgement.”  
  
Will is so shocked he cannot say anything at all. He leans against the edge of Professor Lecter’s desk, brain moving a mile a minute.  
  
 _Why would he offer something like this? It has to be against rules? Why would he want to help — does he know about the crush, oh fuck, he probably knows—_ _  
__  
_“Perhaps if there is still further judgment, as unfortunate as that would be, if would be an open opportunity for _you,_ Will. You could quite easily get under his skin, make him uncomfortable purposefully, force him to see you with a man, now out of spite. There is no reason for your own father to make you question your worth,” he says all of this very seriously, as if it isn’t an insane proposal to just offer to _fake date_ him. “You do not deserve to be treated like less because of this, and I find it disgusting that someone as bright as you, with as much potential and drive, would ever be made to feel unaccepted by the bigoted man who raised you.”  
  
Truly speechless, Will wonders how a man could be more perfect than Professor Lecter, who seems to know exactly what to say to make him feel important. While touching, Will isn’t convinced this is a great idea for multiple reasons; the most pressing one being that if he had to pretend to be in a relationship with the older man, then surely his true feelings would become obvious to him. They would spend more time together, and while that sounds lovely and like a dream, Will doesn’t know if that’s the answer to this problem or his crush.  
  
“You’re my professor,” Will reasons, voice as weak as his attempted argument.  
  
Professor Lecter laughs, crinkles forming around his eyes and softening his face when he looks up at Will, for once taller now that the older man is sitting, “yes, and if I were to pursue you in actuality, it would be _a bit_ of a toe over the forbidden line in the handbook. However, this is just an offer I am extending to a fellow unaccepted boy whose shoes I have once worn.”  
  
Surprised yet again by his professor, Will feels the warmth that usually blooms for him spread through his chest and creep up his neck — he understands, and he wants to help because of it. Or maybe not help, maybe just piss off a homophobic guy he’s never even met before, but Will is still just as smitten with the idea of that. If Professor Lecter says it’s not against the rules to pretend, then why turn down the offer?  
  
“Do you think it’s a good idea?” He asks, curling his fingers up in the long sleeves of his hoodie, nervous, “what if he gets mad and yells, or disowns me or something?”  
  
Disappointment is obvious in his professor’s eyes when he asks, “you think that is a possibility?”  
  
“I dunno,” he gnaws on his lower lip, looking down and away from the man’s eyes, “right now he just thinks I haven’t met the right girl, I’ve never even thought about bringing a guy home if I did somehow start dating someone.”  
  
“It is not impossible for you to find a suitor, Will,” Professor Lecter replies, and from the tone in his voice Will knows if he were to look back up he’d shy away from his gaze immediately anyways. “However, if you worry your father would react that poorly, it sounds like you would never be in a relationship that would make him happy regardless, so finding out now with someone you are not seriously involved with may be preferred. Though, that is a decision for you to make.”  
  
“What—” Will starts, only to top, swallowing hard and thinking fast now that he’s truly considering this, “what would this, um...entail? Would you be like— you’re just—”  
  
“Will,” he can hear the smile in Professor Lecter’s voice, so he looks towards him again, pleased to see the points of his teeth and the laugh lines crinkling near his eyes. “I say that you would do well to think about this for a bit before deciding. Perhaps sleep on it for a night or two.”  
  
“Okay,” Will nods, embarrassed at his apparent quick response.  
  
“I think you and I should exchange phone numbers,” Professor Lecter adds, reaching over to grab his face-down phone on the desk, unlocking it with his fingerprint and adjusting his glasses with his other hand, “I know we correspond through email now, but I think for something like this, texting or phone calls would be quite efficient, yes?”  
  
“Yeah,” Will agrees, dumb and fast and excited, hands quickly scrabbling to get into whichever pocket his phone is in, patting against all of them before finding it and shakily unlocking it, “it’s more efficient, yeah.”  
  
“Wonderful,” Professor Lecter offers up his phone, opened to a screen to add a new contact. Will hurries to do the same with his own phone before handing it over to the older man.  
  
Will spends too long staring at Professor Lecter’s fingers cradling his phone and making it look like it’s the size of a toy — it seems shockingly small in his grasp, the veins bulging as he types.  
  
Realizing he’s been staring, Will quickly ducks his head down to look at Professor Lecter’s phone, imputing his phone number with the contact name _Will Graham,_ just because his nerves remind him that he isn’t sure how many Will’s the man knows and he doesn’t want to get lost in the mix.  
  
They swap back and Professor Lecter only looks at his screen for a brief moment before locking his phone once more, setting it down on his desk yet again.  
  
Will, however, is still looking down at his own phone. The same phone that now holds Professor Lecter’s phone number — he is capable of _texting_ the man he’s been secretly crushing on for months. If anything, he was _encouraged_ to do so by the man himself.  
  
“Is something the matter?” Professor Lecter asks now, likely noticing that Will has been ogling his own phone for far too long to be normal or acceptable.  
  
Will flushes, embarrassed to admit what’s had him all consumed, flicking his eyes up to meet his professor’s, _“Hannibal?”_ He asks.  
  
“It is only right you should call me by my first name,” he says, smooth and unbothered and Will wants to know where he gets his confidence from, because he feels like it’s only fair he should gain a bit too. “Don’t you agree?”  
  
Will feels shy, never having actually spoken the man’s name aloud, though he’d known it since they’d first met — it feels so improper to call a professor by their given name, and having the permission has him feeling all sorts of special.  
  
“Yeah,” he swallows, finally locking his phone, “if that’s okay I uh, I’d like that. Only when we’re alone, though, right?”  
  
Grinning now, _Hannibal_ nods, “yes, we wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea, would we?”  
  
“No,” Will smiles now, too, feeling like he’s in on the joke, heart light.  
  
“Are you feeling better now, Will?” Hannibal asks, seeming to genuinely want to know, and Will just feels so incredibly looked after that he cannot fight the smile off his face.  
  
“Much, yes,” he chuckles, “thank you— uh, for listening and for all of this, really.”  
  
“It’s my pleasure, Will,” Hannibal says, shaking his head with that soft look still in his eyes, “just let me know when you’ve made up your mind. If you decide it is not something you want to do, we can just go back to the way it was before I offered. However, if you want to go along with this idea, I think we should probably set a time to go over details and expectations. All you need to do is tell me whichever way you want it to be.”  
  
“Alright,” Will answers, feeling lightheaded in the best possibly way, “I will. Text you, I mean — I’ll text you when I’ve thought about it some more. And I won’t tell anyone, even if you said it’s alright, I don’t wanna get you in trouble because of this.”  
  
“That is very thoughtful of you. I am personally not worried about it, but I do appreciate you thinking of me and my role in this.”  
  
Tucking his phone back into his pocket, Will pushes himself off of Hannibal’s desk and rounds it, slinging his backpack over his shoulder once more, “I really do feel better,” he says, biting into his bottom lip, “I was so nervous to come talk to you all day for no reason.”  
  
“You were nervous?” Hannibal asks, quirking a brow, “well, I hope that will be the last time I make you feel such a way, Will. Would you like me to walk you to your car? It’s already quite dark outside.”  
  
Will doesn’t think he can handle much more of this — more of Hannibal, his fucking professor that he’s slowly falling deeper and deeper into his stupid crush with, offering nice things to him and smiling at him so sweetly, and for no reason at all.  
  
He’s got to get outside and away from his intoxicating aura before he says something more idiotic than admitting to Hannibal that he’d been _nervous_ to come and see him.  
  
“No, I’ll be alright,” he smiles, backing away towards the door, “I’ll see you tomorrow before your classes start?”  
  
“Of course,” Hannibal nods, pulling his glasses off and sitting them on the desk, “get home safely, Will.”  
  
“Thank you,” Will chews on his lip for a moment as he reaches the door, turning back to look into the office once more, “you too, Hannibal.”  
  
He leaves before he can see the older man’s response, can’t bear to be around him anymore as his heart flutters and butterflies flap wild and free inside him, nearly choking him as he tries to walk to his car on shaky legs — he’s going to do this, he already knows it’s inevitable after how that conversation went.  
  
As he slides into the front seat of his car, chilly while it warms up, Will resolves to just reign his crush in — it isn’t what’s important, it’s silly and juvenile and Hannibal seems to be a thoughtful, caring person and that’s what matters. Never mind how the plan itself makes anxiety claw away at his brain for several different and probably valid reasons; he is deciding that his attraction to the professor doesn’t matter any more now that they’ve spoken, than it had mattered this morning.  
  
Will drives himself home slowly in the dark, no rush even though it’s later than he usually is out. He works to silence the worries in his mind because Hannibal hadn’t looked worried, and he knows now that he can trust the older man.  
  
It takes everything in Will to not spill immediately to Brian and Jimmy who are sat in the living room when he gets home, because he’d for some reason told Hannibal he would keep this a secret — instead he kicks off his shoes, goes up to his room and pulls off his jeans. Crawling into the warmth of his bed with a plan of just relaxing a bit before getting up to make something for dinner he's side-tracked by the little light flashing at the top of his phone. It appears when he was driving he’d gotten a text without noticing, so he’s quick to unlock his phone to get rid of the notification.

He pauses however, when he sees the name on his screen reads _Hannibal,_ his heart sinking before rising too quickly, nerves making his fingers tingle as he opens the text message.

_I hope you've arrived home safely, Will._

Jittery, Will types out his reply without realizing that's what he's doing, _I did. Have you not left yet?_

Surprisingly, the three little dots indicating an incoming reply pop up right away.

_Not quite, no._

Will holds his breath reading the message multiple times because _surely_ that can't be all he's said — because how is Will supposed to reply to something so short? Is he not supposed to at all?

In the midst of his panic, another message comes through, Will relaxing into his bed as he reads, _Take the night off from grading papers, Will. Get some rest. You deserve a break after the stress of the day._

Hannibal thinks he deserves a rest — with that in mind, Will forgets about the few things he has left for Hannibal's class, though it isn't much because he's quite on top of things.

 _Thank you,_ he types biting into his bottom lip so he doesn't smile like an idiot, though he's all by himself. _I'll see you in the morning, Hannibal._

The next reply is just as quick as all the others; _Of course. Give some thought to what we talked about. Goodnight, Will._

Will nearly chokes, surprised at Hannibal’s bold reminder — a reminder that was not needed, considering Will’s already come to his decision. Though he won't let Hannibal know yet; he doesn't want to come off as too eager.

Will sends back a thumbs up and smiling face emoji, locking his phone before he can do something stupid like add in any hearts like a lovesick puppy.

Though, embarrassingly enough, that's exactly what he is.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes needy, pining, drunk, and horny Will Graham and features accidental phone sex because of the aforementioned list of Will Graham's traits/feelings.
> 
> Enjoy !!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter became much hornier than intended but i don't think anyone will mind ~ not beta read but i did my best to catch any oopsies, sorry if i missed any !!
> 
> perhaps you could argue that this is toeing the line of dubcon bc will is drunk when texting/on the phone with hannibal, but he is clearly super into it and i dont personally see it that way ~

Will tries to hold off on telling Hannibal that he’s made up his mind on the little plan they’ve come up with for as long as he possibly can. He manages to make it an entire day, going through Tuesday knowing that he wants to agree to it, but too anxious to tell the older man for fear of seeming too eager.  
  
Perhaps twenty-four hours is still too eager, but it’s as long as Will has the patience to wait.  
  
He tells him via a text message, if only because Hannibal had been the one to bring up communicating easier in that way, and because he knows if he had to face Hannibal in person and have the conversation with the man’s eyes on him, he would likely be too embarrassed to utter the words aloud, making a fool out of himself. This way, he’s safe from the piercing gaze of his professor, and has the time to fully think about how to say it in the best way.  
  
After deleting the text several times and retyping it with slightly different phrasing over and over again, Will’s thumb hovers over the little _send_ button, scanning the message once more just to really make sure that he doesn’t sound stupid or over eager.  
  
 **_Tuesday, October 27,2020_ **  
**_To: Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _Hey, I’ve finished with the rest of the projects from last week and I’ll have them for you in the morning. Also, I’ve been thinking about what you said and I think it’s a good idea. So if you’re still willing, I think I’d like to discuss it a bit further?_ _  
__8:47 pm_ _  
__  
_After hitting send, Will feels the anxiety really wash over him; his heart feels especially frantic, and he breaks out into a cold sweat, locking the phone and setting it down gently on his nightstand. He wishes he had something to do to distract himself — he’d rather be busy at work or have something to grade, but he’s off tonight and already made sure he finished all of the assignments for Hannibal’s class before he sent the text.  
  
The last time he and Hannibal had spoken through text, the man had responded very quickly, though he’d been the one to initially reach out then. Will worries he should have started with just a regular opening to a conversation and then once Hannibal had replied, then he could have brought up the arrangement they’d talked about.  
  
Now, he waits.  
  
Too nervous to focus on anything, Will decides on folding his clean laundry that’s piled up in his hamper — however that only lasts about ten minutes before he finds the task too tedious and boring to actually finish the job, just as usual. His paranoia has Will glancing at his phone every few seconds, afraid that after thinking on it for a day, Hannibal no longer wants to participate and regrets his offer to help Will. Or perhaps he hadn’t meant it at all, and had been expecting Will to turn him down, which is arguably the correct path to take.  
  
Figuring he won’t be able to get anything productive done while he waits, Will pushes through his door and heads downstairs, searching out companionship with whichever roommate he can find first.  
  
Jimmy is sat on the sofa watching a youtube video on his phone, and really, that’s all the invitation Will needs to plop down next to him and eye him until Jimmy eventually looks up at him.  
  
“Are you okay?” He asks, raising his eyebrows, “you look all sweaty and wide-eyed.”  
  
“Yeah,” Will shakes his head, pushing his hand up through his hair falling into his eyes while subtly wiping away the layer of sweat that is gathering there, “I’m great. What are you doing?”  
  
Jimmy seems to contemplate Will’s words, and there’s a minute shift in his eyes that Will notices but can’t decipher. “I’m waiting for Brian to get out of the shower to drive me to Burger King,” he says this slowly, still clearly unsure of Will’s general state of anxiety that he must be doing a terrible job concealing. “Did you wanna come with us?”  
  
Will isn’t hungry — he had eaten nearly an entire bag of _Funyuns_ during his drive home and then proceeded to eat a slice of leftover pizza that was assuredly too old, but he’d already heated it up so he forced it down anyways.  
  
Despite all of this, Will nods, “yeah, actually. I don’t want anything but I think— I think the drive with you guys sounds nice.”  
  
Jimmy’s face is often one that Will finds highly amusing, and he’s reminded of this now with the way he’s looking at Will, “I’ll get you some fries. Fries will help whatever you’re going through right now.”  
  
Will laughs.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The ride with Brian and Jimmy is nice.  
  
Will leaves his phone at home, charging and still notification-less, and he does his best to not think about Hannibal or the rapidly becoming more and more stupid plan they’d been ready to nose dive into.  
  
It helps that he isn’t allowing himself to talk about it, truly not wanting to go around breaking rules and getting Hannibal fired, or least of all ruin his reputation as an educator. Instead Will listens to Brian bitch about getting cut off in line at Burger King, while Jimmy laughs in the passenger seat and sends a mischievous look over his shoulder to Will, reveling in their roommates irritation with a shared glance.  
  
“Oh, Bev texted our group chat,” Jimmy says, now looking at his phone, “she wants to know what alcohol to bring to the party— Will, what party?”  
  
Will instinctively pats his pocket, as if to reply to Beverly, before remembering he’d left his phone at home.  
  
“It’s not a real party,” Will dismisses, “she’s gonna come over Saturday for Halloween but we aren’t dressing up or anything. I forgot to mention it to you guys, but I figured you’d be alright with drinking with us if you weren’t going out at all.”  
  
“I was gonna go down to some bars,” Brian pipes up, “we could pregame at the house and all get a ride to go bar hop.”  
  
“Uh,” Will clears his throat, “I’m not legal yet.”  
  
Jimmy coos, typing away on his phone, “you keep forgetting Will’s just a baby, Brian! So sweet, not even old enough to drink ou—”  
  
“Alright,” Will waves his hands in front of him, wanting Jimmy to never refer to him as a _baby_ or _sweet,_ ever again. “You guys can go if you want, but I think that’s why Bev was alright with not going out anywhere, since I can’t go until summer.”  
  
“We really gotta get you a fake ID, kid,” Brian snorts, slowly inching his way towards the sign to order, “we need to get you out there in public, meet a guy maybe in your age bracket—”  
  
“Alright!” Will interrupts again, feeling the heat in his cheeks at just the mention of his apparent fixation on older men, “I don’t know how to get a fake ID and I also don’t think I’d go out just to hook up with some gross college kid.”  
  
Jimmy barks out a laugh, slapping a hand out to hit Brian on the shoulder, “Will has no interest in boys our age, idiot, you know his taste in men is old and rich — fucking _gross college kid,_ Will, you _are_ a gross college kid!”  
  
 _Hannibal isn’t even old,_ his mind protests, but knows mentioning his name will only make the conversation worse for him.  
  
“I don’t have a taste,” he says instead, peering out the window at the night sky, “I am perfectly content to be single.”  
  
“Content isn’t happy,” Brian sing-songs, glancing up to meet Will’s eyes in the rear view mirror, “I know your dad is a bag of dicks, but you could bring a dude around us and we probably wouldn’t even make fun of him until after he left.”  
  
Will rolls his eyes, “you’re so welcoming.”  
  
“Listen, if you want whoever you’re with to be integrated with us they’re gonna have to get used to some reaming,” Jimmy shrugs, eyes glued to his phone.  
  
“Just like you, Will,” Brian tacks on, winking back at him as if Will wouldn’t have gotten the lewd joke without his help.  
  
Will isn’t exactly fond of his virginity being a topic of conversation, and is quick to try and change the subject, “anyways, Bev will be over and I plan on getting as shit faced as possible and you’re both welcome to join us, and if not I’m sure we’ll keep ourselves pretty entertained.”  
  
“Should we invite anyone else?” Jimmy asks, looking back at Will. Brian has just reached the order sign and starts rattling off everything — Will is pleased that he gets him an order of fries just as Jimmy had promised back at the house. “Not a lot of people but maybe like, Abby, Molly, Francis— the usual ones, y’know?”  
  
Will isn’t a big fan of the list of people Jimmy’s rattled off, but he nods anyways, “whatever, just check with Bev.”  
  
Brian raises an eyebrow at Will in the rearview once again, now done ordering and asks, “you’re chill with Molly coming?”  
  
Will rolls his eyes, “I don’t care.”  
  
“Could get awkward,” he mutters, and Will shakes his head, dismissing the idea entirely.  
  
“She’s nice and took the hint well enough that she isn’t exactly my type. I’m not worried about anything — we’re even still friends.”  
  
That is a bit of an over statement, but Will rolls with it; Molly is truly a nice girl who had stupidly developed a crush on Will during their freshman year of college —it’s been two years and they’ve always been able to be civil towards one another ever since, though they’ve never attended parties together. Partly because Will is a homebody, partly because he thinks Molly avoids social gatherings that she knows Will is going to be at, likely out of the fear of awkward conversations arising.  
  
Considering she likely won’t even come, Will decides it’s a non issue — though even if she does show, he’s sure it won’t change anything.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Arriving back home, Will doesn’t dilly-dally in going back up to his room while still munching on his fries — he likes Jimmy and Brian quite a bit separately but whenever they’re together Will somehow feels like the odd man out, so he doesn’t want to further intrude on whatever plans they have for the evening.  
  
That, and he’s aching to see if he has any response from Hannibal yet.  
  
His phone is lit up on his nightstand from being fully charged, and the little light at the top is blinking, indicating a new text; Will doesn’t allow his hopes to rise, considering he knows he has unread messages from the group chat. Jimmy had relayed the entire conversation as it happened, so Will feels no need to read through the messages, instead scrolling through his notifications with baited breath.  
  
 **_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** **_  
_** Unthinking and heart rabbiting, Will clicks on the message waiting for him.  
  
 _Wonderful job, thank you. If you are decided, perhaps we should speak about the details over dinner. When are you free next?_ _  
__9:22 pm_ _  
__  
_Will isn’t sure what to say, the small praise not even touching him as it usually would because Hannibal is asking him out to dinner — or over to his house, which is even more nerve wracking and intimate than going in public would be.  
  
 _I work tomorrow but I’m off early,_ Will types, worried again that he will come off as too eager. Hannibal had asked when he’s free for dinner next, and truthfully the answer is less than twenty four hours away. _I should be home around seven._ _  
__  
_It’s so soon, so insanely soon that maybe he’ll get lucky and not have time to be worried about it — if they meet tomorrow, Will won’t have to sit around in his nerves, rather he’ll only need to wait a little less than a day and then they’ll have spoken and this will all be sorted and—  
  
 **_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _Perfect, then. Would you like to drive yourself or have me come and fetch you when you get off work?_ _  
__10:08 pm_ _  
__  
_The idea of riding alone in Hannibal’s car is almost a daydream to Will, and he knows that while it’s extremely tempting to lean into that want, it makes more sense to drive himself. At least then he wouldn’t have to ask Hannibal to drive him home, on a work night no less.  
  
 _I’ll drive myself, but I appreciate the offer!_ _  
__10:12 pm_ _  
__  
_Biting on the side of his thumb, Will stares at the screen where the little typing bubbles pop up right away this time, relieving him ever so slightly.  
  
 **_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _Do you have any allergies I should worry about? You will finally be able to taste some of my cooking, but I would like to make sure I do not make anything that will cause a reaction._ _  
__10:14 pm_ _  
__  
_Will smiles down at his phone, nerves momentarily gone because of how thoughtful this man is; ready to cook for Will in under a days notice, offering to come and pick him up so he doesn’t have to drive, double checking for allergies — Will’s already aware that Hannibal is the perfect man, but the reminders are becoming more and more frequent.  
  
 _No, no allergies that I’ve ever encountered. I am really excited to try your cooking, I’m sure whatever you make will be delicious!_ _  
__10:15 pm_ _  
__  
_**_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _Your blind faith in me is encouraging and heartwarming, Will. I will send over my address so you can find your way easily, but if you have any trouble you can always call and I will give you instructions._ _  
__10:17 pm_ _  
__  
_Will isn’t sure how he’s able to fall asleep that night, but miraculously he finds a way — his dreams are hazy and filled with the tan leather of Hannibal’s Bentley, his naked skin sticking to it with his professor hovering over him in the backseat. He wakes in the middle of the night sweating and panting, the front of his briefs clinging to his groin.  
  
He could blame the late night fast food for the filthy dream, but he knows it has everything to do with Hannibal simply offering him a ride. Apparently that’s all it takes for Will to rut against his mattress in his sleep until he’s spilling over like a horny teenager — though, he was a teenager only a few months ago, so really he shouldn’t be too hard on himself.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Usually work feels a bit like it drags on for Will.  
  
Working evenings isn’t so bad, but when he’s just had classes all day it’s hard to stay on his feet and be alert enough to meet customers in a polite, welcoming manner. Oftentimes Will works late into the evening, cutting into his sleep hours and leaving him a bit dead in the mornings. Lately he’s been working less, because they’ve recently hired a new kid and unless he calls out for his shift, he and Will switch who comes in earlier and who stays later. It’s been an all around helpful change, but today he almost wishes Matthew would have called out just so he’d have to work later.  
  
His shift passes by in what feels like a blink of an eye, and then he’s driving home on autopilot, wanting to at least change clothes before going over to Hannibal’s. There’s already a mild panic setting in as he thinks about what he’ll wear, though he’d already mentally laid the outfit out in his mind. Will doesn’t know if he’s expected to dress as Hannibal does, but surely the man knows that a twenty year old college student does not have a three piece suit just lying around.  
  
Getting home far quicker than he’d anticipated, Will collects his clothes that he’d planned to wear from his closet — a soft, warm beige sweater that Beverly had once remarked made him look like a puppy, and a pair of dark slacks that rise a bit higher on his waist than his other pairs. His brain had told him tucking in the front of the sweater would make it seem more sophisticated, more like he belongs in the presence of a man of status like Hannibal.  
  
Looking at his armful of clothes now, he’s growing anxious that he will just fall flat in comparison.  
  
Will looks to his clock on the bedside table, not wanting to leave just yet. He’s got a bit of spare time, and he certainly can’t sit around and _think_ with said extra time. Instead, he turns out of his bedroom and speed-walks into the hallway bathroom, peeling his clothes off of him in a hurry — he doesn’t want to be late, but he thinks showing up freshly showered and not smelling of burnt coffee and pastry filling is more important than a bit of tardiness.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Will chews on his bottom lip, biting into it as he waits under the glow of Hannibal’s porch light — the little doorbell had sung loud enough for Will to hear it outside, and his stomach drops as a clear shadow moves across the window near the door. Hannibal had been expecting him, of course, Will knows this, but a knot of nerves is stuck in his belly when the man pulls open the door and aims a fond smile at him.  
  
“Hello Will,” he steps aside, holding the door open so that Will can step through the threshold, “you found your way well enough?”  
  
Will nods, accepting the help in taking off his jacket that Hannibal offers, “it wasn’t any trouble for me, even in the dark.”  
  
Hannibal hangs his jacket on a hook near the door, turning over his shoulder to look at Will with a raised eyebrow, “do you have trouble seeing in the dark?”  
  
Shrugging, Will’s eyes flit around the entryway, taking in the dark wood and art pieces hung — it smells a bit like his office here, but mostly there’s an unfamiliar aroma of something cooking. That mixed with what Will recognizes as just _Hannibal,_ is a nearly mouth watering combination. Remembering his manners, Will swallows and looks back to Hannibal and takes in the way his hair looks less neat than usual, a bit of his bangs hanging in such a human way over one eyebrow, “sometimes. My glasses can only do so much when oncoming traffic has their brights shining directly into my eyes.”  
  
“You should have let me drive you, then,” Hannibal reasons, turning and motioning for Will to follow with an elegant sweep of his arm, “I would hate for you to put yourself in uncomfortable, dangerous situations for my benefit, Will.”  
  
“If we’re playing technical, this is pretty much exclusively for _my_ benefit,” Will responds, looking around the two of them in what he hopes is taken as respectful curiosity, and not Will shying away from the gaze Hannibal is burning into his profile, “I mean, you’re the one cooking and hosting, and the reasoning… that’s, um, that’s beneficial to pretty much just me, honestly.”  
  
It’s self-deprecating and verging on painful to admit that aloud, but it’s nothing but truthful, no matter which way you try to spin it.  
  
“I have to say I respectfully disagree,” Hannibal leads him into an extravagant dining room with a large table taking up the center of the room; the place settings and centerpiece are so pristine that it looks like a professional had come to decorate beforehand. Knowing it’s just Hannibal’s doing has a familiar pleasant feeling — one that Will almost exclusively associates with the older man — tingling in his belly. “Take your seat, I will be just a moment.”  
  
Will does as he’s told, taking the seat prepared for him just near the head of the table where he assumes Hannibal will sit. There’s empty wine glasses sat out for both place settings, and a bottle chilling on a small table just to the side of where he sits. _You have to be an extra type of fancy to have a fucking wine table next to your actual table,_ Will thinks, unhelpfully, as he waits.  
  
The wait is not long at all, and Will isn’t sure if that’s better or worse for him, considering he’s still a bit rattled with nerves to even be in his professor’s home, let alone for the actual reasoning he’s here. He distracts himself momentarily with watching Hannibal as he enters the dining room, the man clearly walking carefully so as to not spill the two plates he’s carrying in.  
  
He’s dressed down a bit from what Will usually sees, though that isn’t to say he isn’t dressed well; Hannibal is in a charming deep purple button down that is doing marvelous things for his complexion, Will notes. There’s a black waistcoat wrapped snugly around his torso and chest, a floral tie tucked beneath — Will could drool from just the sight of the man before him, forget the food altogether.  
  
Though that would be rude, he supposes, considering all the effort Hannibal’s clearly put into the evening.  
  
He serves Will his plate and sets his own down as well, hands moving sure and easy as he reaches for the neck of the wine bottle, “Will, you are not yet of age to drink, yes?”  
  
The glaring reminder of their vast age difference is shoved directly into his face and Will tries to not let himself become aroused by it, though he’s sure Hannibal is smart enough to notice the blush that rises on his cheeks.  
  
“No,” he shakes his head.  
  
“Would I be correct to assume that your age has not prevented you from doing so anyways?”  
  
Surely flushed by this, Will eyes Hannibal, unsure if he should be truthful. Ultimately, he shrugs a shoulder, aiming for coy, “you would not be _incorrect.”_  
  
The smile Hannibal shoots him is a bit mischievous and it has Will’s toes curling in his shoes.  
  
“Then I suppose one glass with our meal will do no harm,” he plucks up Will’s glass and fills it a bit more full than Will thinks is appropriate for just dinner — though usually when he drinks wine he’s with Beverly and they forgo the glasses altogether. He doesn’t mention it, watching as Hannibal fills his own glass just as high as he had done Will’s. “I will absolutely not allow you more tonight only because you have the drive back home, and I would like you to make it there in one piece.”  
  
“I wouldn’t try and drive drunk,” Will agrees, eyes tracking the movement of Hannibal rolling his sleeves up his forearms as he sits down in his chair next to Will, “but it’s good to know you wouldn’t let me, either.”  
  
“Of course not,” Hannibal grabs for a cloth napkin and spreads it out over his lap; Will copies him immediately, trying to make the motion look natural. “I was not sure of your tastes, so I picked a rather safe recipe for our first meal together.”  
  
“It looks delicious,” Will says honestly, taking in the elegance of the plate before him; he has no idea what it is as a whole, but there’s shredded meat, and a colorful flourish of red and orange, “this will be the first home cooked meal someone’s made for me in awhile.”  
  
“This is quite tame; I am fond of pushing myself in the kitchen,” Hannibal says, cocking his head at Will, “who was the last person to cook for you?”  
  
Will raises his fork as Hannibal does, taking cues from him so he doesn’t seem impolite, “I don’t really call what my dad does cooking — everything is instant something, or from a box. But it would be him. Before that… I think Beverly’s mom, she had us over a few months ago and that was nice.”  
  
Shy, Will closes his lips around a bite of meat — he can’t place what it is, doesn’t have the pallet for that kind of thing, but he hums pleasantly around his mouthful. His eyes search out Hannibal’s, not wanting to speak with food in his mouth and hoping that he can read the praise in his eyes.  
  
“That is quite the shame,” Hannibal sighs, beginning to eat as well. He swallows his first bite before continuing, “both that your father serves you poorly made dishes, and that you have not had something with sustenance in _a few months.”_ _  
__  
_Will drops his eyes to his plate, deciding that focusing on eating this five star restaurant quality meal is better than dealing with the shame that roils inside of him at Hannibal’s obvious displeasure.  
  
“Perhaps I should teach you to cook,” Hannibal says after a moment of pause, “it is a valuable skill to know your way around a kitchen.”  
  
Will stifles a laugh, looking up just enough to meet Hannibal’s eyes for a quick peek before dropping them again, “I suppose we will be spending more time together.”  
  
It’s just a toe in the water, really — a reminder of what this all is. Will’s nervous to have been the one to bring it up, but he thinks waiting for Hannibal to do so would have brought on even more anxiety.  
  
“Yes,” Hannibal nods, reaching a hand out to sip from his wine glass. “Considering how we will be getting to know one another much more, I think adding cooking lessons would be beneficial for the both of us.”  
  
“The both of us?” Will asks.  
  
“Yes; you will learn how to prepare meals for yourself, and I will have the pleasure of teaching a receptive pupil a valuable skill that I consider to be quite enjoyable.”  
  
Will smiles around his fork, finally looking up to meet Hannibal’s eyes for more than just a fleeting glance, “your favoritism is showing, Professor Lecter.”  
  
Hannibal laughs, and Will uses his wine glass to hide how much it affects him to cause such a reaction from the older man.  
  
“I think,” Hannibal begins, tongue slipping between his lips to catch a bit of the citrusy sauce of the meat, “this is a mutually beneficial arrangement. I want to know what you are thinking; what made you agree to this?”  
  
 _You’re really hot and kind of perfect,_ Will shakes his head to dismiss the thought, taking a larger pull from his wine before sitting back against his chair, trying his best to keep the eye contact Hannibal is clearly seeking.  
  
“I agreed because it felt right,” Will admits, twisting his fork between his fingers as he thinks, “I feel like I can trust you.”  
  
“The feeling is mutual,” Hannibal smiles softly now, pointy teeth hidden, but he’s just as charming as always, “we should discuss the finer details. Tell me, how often do you see your father?”  
  
Will chews his next bite a bit longer than what is necessary, stomach knotting at the mention of his dad. Finally, he swallows and answers, “every Sunday.”  
  
“Alright,” Hannibal shifts in his seat, facing himself more towards Will, “then you will have plenty of opportunities. You do not have to start immediately, I know it is a sore spot and causes you anxiety to think of having conversations with him about your sexuality. But, I would perhaps suggest that within the next few times you see him, mention me, even if only for a fleeting moment. Get the ball rolling in his mind.”  
  
He’s right — Will can’t sit around and try and think about _how_ Hannibal is right; perhaps he’s just terribly easy to read with his typical daddy issues.  
  
“Okay,” Will nods, though thinking about bringing up _Hannibal,_ a man who is twenty years older than him and his professor, to his father is truly scary. “And when he gets pissed—”  
  
“Then you hold your ground,” Hannibal says, setting his fork down altogether, “or you leave. You do not sit around and take whatever verbal lashings he will try and aim at you. Eventually, we will find a way to bring me face to face with him, and that is where we will have to put on a show. For now, it is all just preparation for that show; learning each other, becoming more comfortable together.”  
  
“I’m pretty comfortable around you,” Will argues lightly, but the way Hannibal cocks an eyebrow has him nearly squirming.  
  
“You think of me as your superior,” Hannibal challenges, “we cannot present that type of dynamic to your father. Our rather significant age gap already begs a certain question, and we do not want him thinking our relationship is one built on power imbalance.”  
  
Will really wishes Hannibal would stop bringing up things like their age difference and the clear power Hannibal holds over him; he really can’t do with getting hard during this conversation.  
  
“So you want me to not think of you as your superior,” Will nods, “that makes sense, but… you are my superior.”  
  
“We’ll work on it,” Hannibal’s smile is all sharp teeth, but the light in his eyes warms Will to the core.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The following few days after dinner at Hannibal’s home, Will doesn’t find that their relationship changes much. They text more frequently, mostly initiated by Hannibal — Will can see what he’s doing, he isn’t blind; he’s trying to make Will feel comfortable and make sure he knows that this isn’t a bother to him. It’s sweet, and Will never fails to get that stupid rush of jittery excitement every time the man’s name pops up on his screen.  
  
Saturday arrives with the promise of a late night spent getting drunk with his friends, and Will is looking forward to the evening. There’s a handful of people coming over, and the guarantee of hard alcohol and the floaty feeling it always gives him has Will in a brighter mood for the entire day leading up to when Beverly shows up just after six.  
  
She’s earlier than the rest, of course, because she’d been in on planning the night with Will and also just because she’s generally Will’s favorite person to be around, drunk or sober.  
  
They spend a bit of time in his room while Brian and Jimmy go pick up a few more bottles before the few other guests arrive. Beverly sits crisscross on the floor in front of the mirror Will has leaning against the wall, her hand steady as she draws sharp lines into flicks on her eyelids.  
  
“Remind me of who to expect tonight,” she says, eyes meeting Will’s in the mirror, “I don’t need to impress anyone, right?”  
  
Will flops back against his pillows, rattling off the names Jimmy had told him; “Abigail, Francis, Molly, Margot…”  
  
“Okay, then no impressing.”  
  
Will huffs out a laugh, propping his feet up on the bed and playing with a hole in his jeans, “I invited the new kid at my work, Matthew.”  
  
Beverly spins around, eyeliner still pinched between her fingers, “you did?”  
  
“Yeah,” Will shrugs, ignoring the way she’s trying to make a big deal about this.  
  
“Are you into him?”  
  
Will laughs, “no.”  
  
 _He’s no Hannibal Lecter._ _  
__  
_“Then why’d you invite him?” She challenges.  
  
“He’s new at work, and he’s nice, and I don’t think he has any friends,” Will responds, gripping the pillow behind his head, ready to toss it at her, “I got a call from Jimmy while he was around and I felt bad not including him when he’d just heard me talking about a party — even though it’s not even a party.”  
  
“Hm,” Beverly hums, slowly turning back to the mirror, “I believe you, but not because of that elaborate explanation.”  
  
“Oh yeah?”  
  
“Mhm,” she nods, and Will can see the way her cheek rounds out in a smile from his angle, “he’s way too young for you.”  
  
Will rolls his eyes, “he’s like, my age, Bev.”  
  
When she only responds with laughter, Will tosses the pillow at her head after making sure the black pencil is safely away from her eyes.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The thing about Will and alcohol, is that he really enjoys it.  
  
Once he’s started, he has a hard time stopping — it gives him a loose sort of confidence, his anxieties slipping to such a far back cabinet in his brain that he can’t even reach them. He knows his limit with liquor, but has never stopped when reaching that limit. It just makes him feel so good and _free_ that he wants to keep on feeling more of that high.  
  
He’s laughing a lot; everything is funnier when he’s drunk. His cheeks hurt from the laughter and the room wobbles when he bends at the waist to laugh even harder, nearly toppling over when he stands upright again.  
  
Will finds himself in the kitchen with Jimmy and Beverly, having worked his way through the living room socializing with everyone in his way in a more relaxed manner than he could ever dream to sober. Everything is much more pleasant like this.  
  
“Are we doin’ shots?” He asks, eyeing the two of them and the half empty bottle of tequila on the counter.  
  
“Fuck yeah,” Jimmy sloppily grabs for the cabinet, pulling out shot glasses and messily pouring them each one. It spills on the counter when Will grabs his, but the burn barely scorches him this time. “Pretty boy, you gotta slow down, you’re gonna puke if you keep it up.”  
  
“Mhm,” Will nods, slamming his empty glass down to the damp counter and slinging an arm around Jimmy’s neck, “I’ll be good— don’ worry.”  
  
“That boy you invited was looking at you,” Beverly whispers in what may not actually be a whisper, but Will still leans in to hear her better, “he’s into you, all puppy eyes and shit.”  
  
“Sucks for him,” Will laughs, using the hand that isn’t currently wrapped around Jimmy’s neck to try and slip his hand into his pocket, searching for his phone, “did I tell you guys—” he stops, remembering abruptly that he isn’t supposed to tell people about the arraignment with Hannibal. He’d been the one to promise that. But now, he’s got both of them looking at him, waiting. “Uhm, no, no, nevermind actually—”  
  
“What?” Jimmy asks, laughing now too and squeezing Will’s hip where his own arm has wound around him, “tell us, you know we’re so good at secrets, right Bev?”  
  
Beverly nods eagerly, “won’t tell a soul.”  
  
“M’not—” Will sighs, biting into his lip to hide his grin, “I’ve got fuckin’ Professor Lecter’s phone number.”  
  
So maybe telling them just a little will be alright — he won’t tell them about what they’re doing, but boasting about having a crush’s phone number is definitely allowed.  
  
“Oh shit,” Beverly’s eyes look wider than usual, as if she’s genuinely surprised. “Are you guys fucking?”  
  
“No!” Will says it too loud, and too quick. He hears how guilty it sounds, even though he knows that it’s the truth. Calmer, he shakes his head, dizzying himself a bit, “he let me have it to… talk more um, efficiently. That was the word he used, yes, it’s for school shit. But!” He adds, excited as he pulls his phone out of his pocket waving it in between Jimmy and Beverly, “that doesn’t mean s’not cool, ‘cause he’s so hot, and _I_ have his number.”  
  
Will is pretty bad at knowing how much time has passed in conversations when he’s in this state, but he’s pretty sure the next fifteen minutes at least are spent absolutely _refusing_ to call Hannibal with Beverly and Jimmy listening in, defending himself for referring to him as _Hannibal,_ and reassuring his two closest friends that he’s definitely still a virgin.  
  
“Wait,” Jimmy turns to him, dropping his arm around Will’s waist so quickly that he nearly falls, if not for the counter there to support him, “what if he’s your first— Will, what if—”  
  
“Oh my god,” Will covers his surely red face, shaking his head, because he doesn’t need Jimmy saying his actual fantasies aloud, “there’s no way— literally, no way he’d do that, m’like… not his type.”  
  
“Yeah, lots of gay men are known to hate pretty boys with puppy eyes and dick sucking lips,” Beverly snorts, and Will can’t help but laugh along with her, completely in disagreeance with her description of him.  
  
“He’s probably not even gay,” Will waves a dismissive hand, but Jimmy shakes his head before he’s even finished speaking.  
  
“I’m pretty sure he was married to a guy,” Jimmy says, and his confidence in this has Will’s hopes stupidly rising.  
  
“Shut up, m’not gonna fuck him,” Will lifts the tequila and takes a quick pull straight from the bottle, hissing as he sets it down. “M’gonna go pee.”  
  
As soon as he turns, Will nearly bumps directly into Matthew who is just entering the kitchen, and if he were sober then maybe he’d blush at likely being heard talking about sex in a very much _not private_ setting, but as is, Will just grins at him as he passes by, shoulders brushing and sending Will’s next few steps a little off kilter, though he doesn’t actually fall.  
  
Over all, he’s yet to fall down or throw up, so he’s pretty proud of himself for the night.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The other thing about Will and alcohol, is that it makes him a bit more suggestive than he usually is.  
  
Just a bit.  
  
He’d gotten through the night flirting with pretty much everyone in that way that doesn’t really seem like flirting when you’re intoxicated, and now that Beverly is tucked in on the couch and everyone else has left, Will’s feeling a bit lonely in his room by himself.  
  
It had been fun, but his mind had wandered quite often to thoughts of Hannibal — he’d told the man beforehand that he would be having a little get together on Saturday night during one of their text conversations, and he’d been told to be safe and have fun. Now that everyone is gone, Will pulls his phone out of his pocket and types a message to Hannibal, without any expectations for a reply.  
  
 **_Sunday, November 1, 2020_ ** **_  
_** **_To: Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _i didnt even tell tehm about what wer’e doing even tho i wanted to !!! idid s oggood professor lecter_ _  
__ohwait no uou said i canca ll you hannibal now_ _  
__hannibal hannibal haniniabl_ _  
__tell me i didso good_ _  
__2:08 am_ _  
__  
_Will tosses his phone to the bed, leaving the messages open even though he’s pretty sure Hannibal is asleep right now. He pulls at the hem of his shirt, lifting it up and over his head as he stumbles, throwing it in the general direction of where he knows his hamper usually is.  
  
His phone vibrates, and Will thinks he can feel it in his bones as he rushes to get to it, finding himself nearly frozen in shock that Hannibal has replied to his clingy texts so quickly in the middle of the night.  
  
 _You’re awake quite late, are you having fun? It sounds like it._ _  
__I am sure you did very well, though I’m not sure who or what you did not tell._ _  
__2:10 am_ _  
__  
_Will types before thinking — though he’s so drunk that maybe that’s the safer option.  
  
 **_To: Hannibal  
_** _youreawake !!!  
_ _You shouldb,e skeepign hannibal  
_ _2:11 am_

Will plops down on the carpeted floor of his bedroom in only his jeans, staring at his phone as he watches Hannibal type back a response so quickly.  
  
 **_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _I could say the same to you, Will. How much have you had to drink? Have you had any water?_ _  
__2:13 am_ _  
__  
_Will smiles as he types, heart giddy and belly warming at Hannibal already caring for him.  
  
 **_To: Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _not a lot howcould uou even tell idid_ _  
__so smart_ _  
__why aer youso uhhhghh_ _  
__2:15 am_ _  
__  
_The carpet is soft beneath him, and Will finds himself sinking lower until he’s laying fully on the ground, hand holding his phone tightly so he won’t miss Hannibal’s response.  
  
 **_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _You need to go drink some water, it will be easier on you in the morning if you do._ _  
__Why am I so what, Will?_ _  
__2:16 am_ _  
__  
_Yet again, unthinking, he types.  
  
 **_To: Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _evertying  
_ _You. jsut everythingso much_ _  
__i shoun’t say, shhhh_ _  
__water toofarrrr_ _  
__2:18 am_ _  
__  
_While he waits for Hannibal’s response, Will’s free hand pets against the carpet below him, eyes slipping closed as the soft fluff against his skin seems to lull him nearly under — not quite though, because when his phone vibrates he’s quick to open the text, sitting up against the side of his bed to prevent himself from falling asleep in the middle of talking to Hannibal.  
  
 **_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _It is not too far, it will help you feel better when you wake up. Go on and get some, Will._ _  
__2:21 am_ _  
__  
_**_To: Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _soooooo faarrrrrr_ _  
__wahat if youfall asleepw wehn imgone?_ _  
__2:24 am_ _  
__  
_**_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _I can assure you, I will be awake when you get back._ _  
__2:24 am_ _  
__  
_Will contemplates listening, if only so Hannibal will maybe praise him again. Overall, the idea of water right now sounds disgusting and he’s insanely comfortable where he sits against his bed on the floor.  
  
 **_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _Are you going?_ _  
__2:26 am_ _  
__  
_Will giggles as he types back immediately, his first message that isn’t riddled with spelling or grammatical errors, just; _yes_ _  
__  
_Hannibal wastes no time in calling him on his bullshit — Will isn’t sure if that’s what he’d wanted, but it makes him bite painfully into his lip that the older man knows he’s lying.  
  
 **_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _Show me a picture._ _  
__2:27 am_ _  
__  
_The giggling does not cease as he types;  
  
 **_To: Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _iddidnt reallly go_ _  
__i dont wannaw alk_ _  
__2:29 am_ _  
__  
_Eyes scanning over the yet again immediate response he receives, Will pauses as he reads — something so simple, but it’s enough to have him blushing.  
  
 **_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _It would make me very happy if you did, though._ _  
__2:30 am_ _  
__  
_Will could very easily blame his response on the alcohol coursing through his system, but he’s not sure he would behave any differently when sober. He pulls himself up from the ground, sending the quick message of _oh,_ back to Hannibal as he makes his way out of his bedroom and down the stairs as quietly as he can. His footsteps are uneven and it takes far longer than usual to reach the first floor, but he’s too drunk and smitten to be embarrassed.  
  
Tip-toeing through the dark living room while Beverly snores, Will makes sure he doesn’t turn on the light in the kitchen until the door is closed so he doesn’t accidentally wake her.  
  
He manages to pull a clean glass down from the cabinet, working his way around the untidy kitchen to get to the fridge where he presses the glass, the obnoxiously loud sound of ice turning and clattering against glass completely undoing his previous courtesy towards the other people in the house. Uncaring, Will stifles a laugh as he switches to the side that pours filtered water, unable to feel rude in his current state of mind.  
  
Without much thought, Will sets the glass down before even taking a sip of it — not that he really wants to in the first place — and uses his phone to take a picture of it, sending it to Hannibal despite the blurriness from his unsteady hand  
  
His reply comes when Will is taking a little drink, and he huffs as he reads it.  
  
 **_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _Did you search that on the internet rather than walk to the kitchen?_ _  
__2:39 am_  
  
Without any pause, Will raises the glass and holds it up near his face, using his phone to snap a photo of himself holding it so that Hannibal will believe him this time. He has enough of a mind about him to make sure he looks decent in the picture before sending it, blushing at the fact that he’s clearly shirtless and one of his nipples is very much exposed due to his lopsided photo taking.  
  
He sends it anyways, chewing on his lip as he leans against the counter.  
  
 **_To: Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _nooo!!! its raeally mine, look look_ _  
__seeee, will did do good:)_ _  
__2:41 am_ _  
__  
_**_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _Yes, you did do very good, Will. Thank you for listening. Make sure you actually drink it._ _  
__2:42 am_ _  
__  
_Filled with a sense of pride, Will sips his water just because he knows Hannibal would want him to and types slowly moves to exit the kitchen.  
  
 **_To Hannibal:_ ** **_  
_** _youre happy wiith me ???_ _  
__2:43 am_ _  
__  
_**_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _Yes, I am. Are you tired? It’s getting awfully late._ _  
__2:44 am_ _  
__  
_Will is absolutely the opposite of tired — he feels a bit amped, his body vibrating at all the attention he’s receiving. He should just reply to Hannibal and tell him that yes, he’s so tired, he will be getting to bed right now and then probably thank him for dealing with him in the middle of the night.  
  
However, Will is still extremely _not sober,_ and his brain tells him that he definitely cannot just go to sleep while Hannibal is showering him with praise and care. It would be stupid and a waste of an opportunity when he is getting exactly what he wants right now.  
  
 **_To: Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _nnooooo, im not sleepy atall!!_ _  
__i like talkign with you_ _  
__dont wanna selep yet :(_ _  
__2:46 am_ _  
__  
_Perhaps he’s coming off as annoying — he really can’t be bothered to try and give a shit about that likely possibility, especially when Hannibal is being so attentive and quick to respond to his neediness.  
  
 **_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _Alright, no need to pout, we can keep talking if you like._ _  
__However, if you get sleepy, you must tell me._ _  
__2:48 am_ _  
__  
_Now safely in his own room again, Will sets his glass of ice water down on the bedside table and climbs into bed — the light is still on, but he thinks if he were to turn it off then he’d be too tempted to close his eyes and would accidentally fall asleep when he could be using this time to talk with Hannibal instead.  
  
 **_To Hannibal:_ ** **_  
_** _if i getsleepy, nooo_ _  
__then ill jutst drream aboutyou again_ _  
__staying awakre !!_ _  
__2:49 am_ _  
__  
_Will doesn’t realize his mistake, even after he sends the message. He just adjusts his pillows and pulls his stuffed dog out of the corner of his bed so that he can lay on the pillow near his face, fingers reaching up to pet against the soft fur of his ear.  
  
 **_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Hannibal_ ** **_  
_** _Do you often have dreams about me, Will?_ _  
__If you truly are not tired yet, perhaps you should call me instead._ _  
__Just until you are ready for sleep._ _  
__2:51 am_ _  
__  
_The idea of _calling_ Hannibal is surely daunting to Will — not right now, though.  
  
Right now, that sounds like a great idea, and he’s pressing the little phone icon near Hannibal’s name before he can stop himself or try to think of a reason why drunk calling your professor turned pretend boyfriend is a _less_ _than_ great idea.  
  
Hannibal’s voice is right in his ear after only two rings, soft and familiar and one of Will’s favorite sounds; “hello, Will.”  
  
Will closes his eyes to it as he scoots up and leans against his headboard, toy dog next to his hip as he pets it, “hi, Hannibal.”  
  
“I must admit to being a bit curious,” Hannibal says, and there’s no need for any elaboration, but he does so anyways, “about your dreams.”  
  
Will giggles, sinking down lower and trying to get comfortable, dropping his stuffed animal to cover his face even though Hannibal can’t see him, “your curiosity makes me curious.”  
  
“About?” Hannibal asks, though Will feels it’s obvious.  
  
“Why you’d— why would you wanna know,” he says, peeling his eyes open and wishing he’d turned off the light because now it feels too bright to have this conversation, “some things should stay secrets, don’t you think?”  
  
“Hm,” Hannibal hums, clearly shifting. Will wonders if he’s in bed too, and tingles at that thought. “Perhaps some things, but not all.”  
  
“Why don’t you tell me any secrets, then?” Will challenges, confident and tipsy, “if you… you wanna hear about mine, it’s only fair.”  
  
“I’m afraid I don’t have any,” Hannibal murmurs, and his voice soothes something in Will, crawling in his ear and working it’s way around his brain until he feels weighed down to his bed. “Nothing nearly as interesting as what you could likely be telling me.”  
  
It feels flirty, and Will wriggles a bit as Hannibal’s suggestive tone lights the match of arousal in his belly.  
  
Freshly tingly, Will bites his lip but asks anyway, “which dream do you wanna hear?”  
  
There’s a quiet pause on the line, and it’s one that has Will painfully aware of the way his cock is filling out extremely quickly in his jeans that he was stupid to leave on in the first place. His free hand drifts to pet over his stomach, light and easy and trying not to drift lower than his waistband, though he really would like to.  
  
“Whichever one is the latest — or most memorable, perhaps,” Hannibal finally says, voice coming out with a bit more husk than Will usually can pick up on.  
  
“I can’t tell you the most memorable,” Will huffs a small laugh, his mind flashing to when he’d been lucky enough to dream of himself being fucked to an almost animalistic degree in a lecture hall in front of a room full of students. “Last one…” Will hums, fingertips petting his lower stomach, as he tries to recall. He forgoes the dream that took place in Hannibal's car, feeling like it's a bit too dirty to delve into. “I dreamed I was in your lap.”  
  
There’s no indication that this information has affected Hannibal at all when he speaks, “did you?”  
  
Will smiles, “no, but when I woke up that’s what I pictured would have happened if I stayed asleep.”  
  
Hannibal tsks and takes a deep breath, “start at the beginning; what happened in the dream?”  
  
“You were teaching,” Will sighs, inhibitions gone as he just barely slips the ends of his fingers under his waistband, “you had this navy suit on — but not the jacket. Just a waistcoat and regular button down with your sleeves pushed up — I was very distracted.”  
  
The memory itself has Will’s arousal curling tight in his tummy, now with the addition of detailing it back to Hannibal down the line of the phone. The whole thing has him nearly shoving his jeans down and touching himself right now.  
  
“Why were you distracted, Will?”  
  
His laugh is short and quiet, “your shoulders. And arms, obviously.”  
  
Hannibal’s response is what seems like a genuine laugh, and it has Will preening even if he may be being laughed _at._ He thinks with Hannibal it might not matter how he’s given attention, so long as he gets it.  
  
“Well, go on.”  
  
Will sighs again, “nothin’ really happened. You were teaching ‘nd I couldn’t focus so good.”  
  
He’s fully hard now; can feel the way his jeans dig into his obvious arousal. Thinking it somehow better than just removing the garment to touch himself, Will opts to run his palm along his length, pressing and trying to relieve the ache over the top of his pants.  
  
“What did you think about after you woke up, then?” Hannibal asks, and this causes Will to throb, recalling how he’d laid in this very spot and closed his eyes tight, pictured Hannibal as he’s brought himself over the edge so quickly; too excited by the mere thought.  
  
“You were talkin’ to me,” Will manages to breathe out, rolling his hips up into his palm, “pulled me into your lap like I was small and weighed nothin’.”  
  
“You are small, Will,” Hannibal says, and Will feels the noise he makes as it slips up the back of his throat and past his lips, whimpering right into Hannibal’s ear on the other end of the phone.  
  
Embarrassed, Will can’t help himself as he pops the button on his jeans and shoves them down just enough — Hannibal won’t know, he can be quiet.  
  
“You were touching me,” he admits, though it was clearly implied exactly what was happening.  
  
“Where?” Hannibal has the audacity to ask.  
  
“You know where,” Will feels the flush from his cheeks travel down his neck and chest — this is so incredibly new that if he weren’t as drunk as he is, the embarrassment of it all may have him hanging up. As is, he’s growing more desperate by the second; desperate for something he’s never even had, but his body _knows_ that it wants.  
  
Hannibal breathes louder for only a second before composing himself, asking, “with just my hand?”  
  
Will tightens his own hand around himself, whimpering and bucking into his hold, “yeah, your hand — you were… my neck, uh, you were biting me, too.”  
  
The lust coursing through Will’s veins is enough to have him shameless in his confession, instead of shying away from talking about this, he craves for Hannibal to ask him more, to prompt him to say filthier things. His hand is sticky from precome, and he can feel his heart thudding as he creeps a bit closer to the edge, panting — thoughts of being quiet to keep what he’s doing a secret out the window.  
  
“Have you fantasized about this before?” Hannibal asks, and he sounds so fucking composed, like he isn’t affected at all; Will wants him to be affected, wants Hannibal to be hard, touching himself with Will, telling him about things he’s fantasized about, too.  
  
“All the time,” Will answers, swallowing down another likely embarrassing sound.  
  
The pause on the line isn’t long, but it must be long enough for Hannibal to realize — that, or he’s known all along about Will’s self restraint being too weak to hold himself back from pleasure. When he speaks, Will’s toes curl and his thighs tense, enjoying that he’s been found out, “are you close, Will?”  
  
He is — shockingly close, for how little he’s worked to get there. Perhaps it’s Hannibal being on the phone that’s spiraling him closer to the breaking point, or maybe the alcohol, or a mix of both. Will’s never done something like this, never been so intimate with another person ever before, and Hannibal isn’t even really _there,_ which may also play a part in how quickly he’s gotten so close.  
  
“Mhm,” he whimpers, legs shaking and hand tightening around himself, dribbling precome over his fingers as he listens to Hannibal finally show a bit of audible interest. It’s just a sharper intake of breath, but it does wonders for Will’s oncoming orgasm; Hannibal is surely turned on too, he’s just better about controlling himself.  
  
“Good,” Hannibal murmurs, and it feels like warm honey wading around in Will’s belly, tightening and spreading. Then, a bit softer, “that’s a good boy.”  
  
Will’s body shakes with the force of his orgasm — his legs spasming and hips rolling up into the tight grip of his fist. There’s a ringing in his ears that just nearly blocks out the blissful, pitiful sound that tears out of his throat, high in pitch and accompanied by his panting breaths all while he covers the inside of his briefs and his fingers in come.  
  
He’s tingly all over, eyes closed while he tries to catch his breath. Hannibal is cooing something soft in his ear — Will can’t quite understand him, but it surely sounds sweet enough to help him calm down and quiet his needy whimpering.  
  
“Will,” his voice is so soft, Will just hums a quick little _hm,_ but that has Hannibal chuckling, “Will, go wash up before you fall asleep.”  
  
“Mhm,” Will doesn’t move, hand still curled around his softening dick, come cooling and dribbling between the webs of his fingers.  
  
“Will, you’ve done very well, but you must go wash before falling asleep,” Hannibal repeats himself, and Will smiles dazedly at the praise, alcohol and orgasm drunk all at once now. He’s just so sleepy.  
  
“Hannibal,” Will sighs, blinking slowly until he’s faced with the brightness of his room, wincing and turning to hide his face in his pillow.  
  
“Yes?” He asks, but Will just yawns, grimacing as he pulls his sticky hand out from his underwear. “Are you falling asleep?”  
  
“Wanna,” Will pouts, closing his fist to test if it’s _too sticky_ or if it’s alright and he can just roll over and go to sleep. He frowns at the mess, watching a bit drip down to his wrist, “messy.”  
  
“Yes, I would imagine you are,” Hannibal murmurs, sounding amused, “just be very fast and clean yourself up, then you can go right to sleep, alright?”  
  
Will hums in acknowledgement, slowly sitting himself up without using his dirty hand, careful not to touch anything as he balances his phone between his ear and shoulder, “are you sleepy too, Hannibal?”  
  
Hannibal’s voice is so soft, Will wishes he could record him speaking so he could use it to lull himself every night, “not as sleepy as you, dear Will. Go on, go wash up, I expect you to text me when you get into bed next so I know you have not just fallen asleep in such a messy state.”  
  
Another wave of warmth rushes through Will — it’s different than the lust from just a few moments ago, and more similar to when Hannibal sends him proud smiles at school, or when he tells him he’s done well. He feels, silly as it may be, cared for, despite the fact that Hannibal has done nothing more than listen to him come all over himself on the phone in the middle of the night.  
  
That’s a worry for another time, though.  
  
“I will,” he yawns, setting his bare feet on the floor and grabbing his phone with his clean hand, “m’glad you weren’t sleepin’ when I texted you earlier.”  
  
“Yes, me as well,” Hannibal hums, “I also want you to finish your whole glass of water before bed, alright Will?”  
  
“Yes sir,” Will snorts, finally pulling himself up onto his feet, “m’gonna go…”  
  
“Clean up, yes,” Hannibal finishes the sentence for him, and Will flushes in embarrassment now that he isn’t having horny-clouded thoughts. “Do not forget to text me. Goodnight, Will.”  
  
“Night, Hannibal,” Will ends the call with pink cheeks and a dopey smile on his face, hurrying his way to the bathroom to get the dried come off of him.  
  
He’s quick about it, craving being back in bed, curling up with his dog stuffie knowing he’ll fall right to sleep after everything tonight — he feels quite a bit less drunk than he had last time he was stood upright, no longer stumbling, though his vision is still blurry even as he makes his way back to bed.  
  
The reality of the situation has yet to set in — there is no panic as Will clicks on Hannibal’s name and sends a quick little, _m goin to sleep now._ _  
__  
_There’s no worry as Will pulls the blankets up to his chin and tugs his stuffie to his chest; it doesn’t even feel real. In the morning he may have to deal with it, but right now, listening to his phone buzz on the nightstand, signaling a reply from Hannibal even though it’s now after three in the fucking morning, Will feels absolutely content with himself. He’s drowsy from the alcohol and from his recent orgasm, and it doesn’t feel like an issue at all that he’s just revealed not only his crush, but his clear sexual attraction to Hannibal and then somehow ended up touching himself while they were speaking — it’s not an issue because it doesn’t seem like it really happened.  
  
Will’s drunk brain shuts off as soon as his eyes close, and he has a nice, restful, dreamless sleep until just after nine when he wakes up because he hadn’t drawn his curtains before bed and the sun is shining right in his eyes. He groans, turning away from the window and hiding his face in his pillow — the memory of the previous night, only six hours ago now, hits him like a semi and then he’s immediately wide awake.  
  
He’s pretty sure he just fucked himself — and not in the way that he’d have liked to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may be thinking to urself,,, winnie, they've only been fake boyfriends a few days and already they're being horny ? to that i say, yes ! this was suppose to be a pwp and the next 3 chapters are going to be similarly formatted w horny will, followed by his oops thats embarrassing moment ~ thank you all for leaving comments on the first chapter and for kudoing !! it means so much to me to have people reading even though this isn't complete yet ! the next update will probably be in a few weeks, but i'll try for as early as possible ~ remember to follow me on twitter for more content @subwillgraham !!


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello friends, I'm very sorry this took so long but !! this chapter is longer than the others to compensate !!
> 
> Big Content Warning for homophobia in this chapter in a scene with Will and his dad, if you're triggered by that kind of content please tread carefully. It's rather short, but still, be careful pals ❤

Will spends the entirety of Sunday morning hidden in his bedroom.  
  
Beverly is still downstairs, he can hear her voice as she speaks to one of his roommates — whichever one isn’t currently in the shower, he can’t focus enough to differentiate the tones of their voices, considering he’s terribly occupied thinking of a way to remove himself from Hannibal’s life before Monday morning rolls round.  
  
So far he’s come up with zero realistic options and is trying to come to grips with the fact that he’s just going to have to show his face to the older man and apologize profusely, and depending on how that goes he may just drop out of school or something on that level of dramatism.  
  
The worst part is that, while he can remember the events of last night pretty well, though they’re a bit foggy, he can’t recall why he let himself lose all control over his brain to mouth filter, nor can he remember why on earth Hannibal would indulge him at all. It’s confusing and the fact that he’s constantly replaying everything in his head to try and find where it went wrong is making a dull throb start up just behind his eyes.  
  
He could have sworn Hannibal had talked him through it all — had known by figuring out for himself what Will was doing, and then he’d stayed on the phone on purpose, urging Will for more details, voice low and dangerous as Will had ever heard it.  
  
And then to make sure Will had gotten up to wash the come from his hand before verbally tucking him in? He feels absolutely mortified at even the idea of looking at his phone — he cannot look through those text messages, because he can’t remember most of them and he fears being confronted with physical proof of what he’d done would make him leap through the fucking window.  
  
Will thinks that even if he _could_ talk to Beverly about this, he’d be too ashamed to do so. When she comes knocking lightly on his door just after one in the afternoon, he just feigns a horrible hangover and she brings him a glass of water, which somehow that is just another reminder of last night and _Hannibal,_ and then she leaves. He listens from beneath his sleep warmed sheets to her footsteps as she trots down the stairs, pausing for a moment at the bottom, likely gathering her things and getting her shoes on, and then the sound of the front door opening and shutting echoes through the house.  
  
Brian and Jimmy are still around, but they’re quiet too — Beverly’s never been one to suffer much from a hangover, and though Will is fibbing about the reasoning behind his headache, he figures that his two roommates are likely not feeling great either.  
  
Will’s phone buzzes several times in quick succession on his nightstand and his heart immediately leaps into his throat, and a rush of panicked tears gloss over his eyes — it’s Hannibal, it has to be, he’s probably telling Will he’d been disgustingly inappropriate and not only is he done contacting Will, but he is going to kick him out of his class and revoke his TA privileges and mock him for being a gross, horny, idiot.  
  
It takes multiple minutes for Will to pluck up the courage to look at his phone, his breath caught the entire time he types in his passcode.  
  
 **_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Matthew (work)_ ** **_  
_** _Hey, I just wanted to thank you for the invite last night!_ _  
__I had a lot of fun_ _  
__Hope we can hang out outside of work again sometime_ _  
__Maybe just the two of us next time_ _  
__See you tomorrow!_ _  
__1:21 pm_ _  
__  
_Will has to read the words a couple of times, though they’re simple and predictable, if only because he was sure that would not be what he was unlocking his phone to. He isn’t sure how to reply, so he decides not to, backing out of the new thread of messages with Matthew, who is seemingly as into him as Beverly had implied he was, though Will’s interest is nowhere near the kid.  
  
His messages with Hannibal are right under Matthew’s, and for a moment Will almost clicks on his name just to see for himself how stupid he’d been — the guilt and shame win, though, so he just closes the app and locks his phone, laying back against his pillow and shutting his eyes.  
  
He had no idea fake dating your professor that you’re in heavy lust with could lead down the path he’s on now. The path that’s telling him dropping out of college is the much easier route than having to try and look Professor Hannibal Lecter in the eye after drunkenly masturbating on the phone with him, in less than twenty four hours.  
  
And the cherry on top is that it’s Sunday — in about three hours he is unfortunate enough to leave his safe space and drive all the way to his father’s house, and now he isn’t even sure if he should try and bring up Hannibal, because _surely_ he will want to back out of the plan after last night.

 _Fuck,_ Will’s brain helpfully supplies, and then once more as he buries his head in his pillow, _fuck._ _  
__  
  
_

* * *

  
Thankfully Will makes it through being in his dad’s presence unscathed this time; it’s likely too soon for the man to try and convert Will into heterosexuallity again after bringing it up once already the last time they met.  
  
The football game is just as boring as usual, and the food is arguably greasy enough to help his still hungover headache, though it isn’t any better tasting than what he’s typically given.  
  
On the tip of his tongue the entire evening, he’s holding back bringing up Hannibal. It has to be convincing, and Will isn’t sure he could convince anyone of anything, what with how paranoid he is — he’s checked his phone about twelve times every hour to see if there’s any word from Hannibal, though the silence is a strange swirl of comforting and terrifying. He just wishes he knew his fate, but in the same breath, not being confronted with the consequences of his actions just yet is helping him get through the day.  
  
“Remember, don’t make any plans on the weekend of the fourth,” his dad says as he stands to walk him out, and Will hadn’t really been paying any attention the entire night so he’s not at all sure why he needs to clear out an entire weekend.  
  
“Of November?” He asks.  
  
“December,” he shakes his head, taking a swig of his beer, “I told ya when I got the invite, remember?”  
  
Sudden despair curls around Will’s lungs — the memory of his father telling him they’ll be _carpooling_ to a weekend getaway for his cousin’s wedding a few hours away. He must have blocked it out due to his distaste for Frederick, and the idea of driving in a car with his father, of all fucking people, for several hours, only to stay an entire _weekend_ —  
  
Yes, he must have blocked it out of his mind, because the reminder of it is doing nothing to rid himself of the headache behind his eyes.  
  
“Oh yeah,” Will nods, backing out towards the front door, “I’ll make sure I’m free.”  
  
Though, the option of lying and feigning having to work is certainly nowhere near off the table.  
  
On the drive home, Will finds himself entirely lost in his own thoughts — the day is over, and now he has to face the reality of _tomorrow_ with no place to hide. He has to take accountability for his actions; face the consequences of his stupid, drunk choices. Realistically, he can’t just _not_ show up, despite the growing need he feels to do just that; no, he will have to walk into the lion’s den with his tail tucked between his legs and hope that Hannibal takes pity on him.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Thankfully — or, maybe not so thankfully, Will doesn’t have to attend Hannibal’s Monday morning class and won’t actually have to see the man in person until the end of the day. Part of Will would like to just get the conversation over with so he knows where he stands, and another part of him would much rather stew in his panicked uncertainty, and he spends the whole day debating with himself about which he’d prefer.  
  
When Will’s last class finishes, he walks slowly to Hannibal’s office, hoping to run into someone he knows well enough to stand around and talk to for a few minutes more of safety. However, he is unlucky in his pursuit of a distraction and finds himself all too quickly stood in front of Hannibal’s mostly opened door. He can’t bring himself to go in just yet, so he stands, hoping that his figure will not be noticeable to the older man who he can hear typing on his computer just inside the room.  
  
Apparently, he’s there for too long — the typing ceases entirely before Hannibal audibly clears his throat, “Will, are you going to come in?”  
  
Tucking his tail and running away has never looked so good.  
  
Will pushes the door the rest of the way open and steps just inside, not fully entering the room and not fully meeting Hannibal’s eyes as he looks at him. Instead he focuses on the knot of his tie, careful not to look up to the man’s face because he may just have a mental breakdown depending on how Hannibal is looking at him.  
  
“Good afternoon,” Hannibal pushes back in his chair, and Will’s eyes follow the movement, watching in his peripherals the way his legs spread wider as he leans back in his chair, “how were your classes today, Will?”  
  
He hadn’t been expecting to be confronted with his mistake immediately, but the blatant attempt at small talk has him a bit taken aback.  
  
“Fine,” he swallows, nudging the toe of his shoe into the ground and doing his best not to look at Hannibal’s large hands resting on his thighs. “Do you have anything for me to grade?”  
  
Hannibal nods — Will can see the halo of his hair move just slightly, backlit by the window and making him look more angelic than usual. Will clears his throat and steps forward, stopping in his tracks when Hannibal raises a hand, palm up.  
  
“Will,” he clears his throat, and Will panics, thinking this is it, this is where he loses his spot as his assistant and is transferred to another class where that professor will be told that he’s there because he’s stupidly horny and couldn’t control himself around a man he looks up to. Maybe they’ll place him with a female instructor, that would surely help Will be able to keep it in his pants— “Will, did you hear me?”  
  
He blinks and accidentally looks into Hannibal’s eyes, trapping himself there for too long, “what?”  
  
“I asked you to close the door,” Hannibal says, but his eyes are soft, and his lips are curving into what looks like a friendly gesture.  
  
He does as he’s asked, but moves no further into the room, back to ignoring Hannibal’s gaze.  
  
“I think it would be best for you if we discussed the elephant in the room,” Hannibal says after seemingly waiting for Will to initiate further conversation.  
  
“Okay,” Will swallows, fighting the annoying burn in his eyes already.  
  
“Would you like to sit down?” Hannibal offers the chair on the opposite side of his desk, but Will isn’t sure if that would help or not. A moment later Hannibal clears his throat, “I think I’d like it if you would join me.”  
  
On autopilot, Will creeps forward with what feels like a boulder dragging down on his shoulders — he feels so stupid and naive, like a scolded child who has disappointed their parent. He takes the proffered seat but keeps his eyes on the wooden shine of Hannibal’s desk rather than looking at the older man.  
  
“Will, I know you are uncomfortable, and I believe I know why,” Hannibal begins, scooting his chair back in so that his hands are folded neatly on the desk, clouding Will’s thoughts as his eyes accidentally trace the web of veins along the back of his hands, cording up each long finger. He physically shakes his head, clearing his thoughts and looking instead to the bottom of the little lamp atop the desk. “But rather than assume, I would like you to tell me what’s the matter.”  
  
“You know what’s the matter,” it’s soft and weak and Will hates how shame is lodging itself tight in his throat, making it hard for him to speak up at all if he even wanted to.  
  
“I think I do,” Hannibal agrees, “would you like to tell me, or hear what I think?”  
  
Will shakes his head, lifting a hand to push a stray curl out of his eyes, “neither.”  
  
“I am afraid that was not one of the options I’ve given you,” Hannibal’s tone is cool and relaxed — _he_ isn’t uncomfortable, _he_ isn’t wrapped up in shame, _he_ seems perfectly fucking _fine._ _  
__  
_Will looks down to his hands in his lap, picking at a fingernail and waiting for Hannibal to get on with this likely mortifying conversation.  
  
“Will,” he says it softly now, and Will fights back the stupid need he suddenly feels to cry — he’s cried in this office one too many times already.  
  
“I don’t wanna say,” he clears his throat, trying to dislodge the lump.  
  
“Then I will tell you how I see this,” Hannibal says, pausing for a moment to wait for Will’s response. He nods minutely, and the older man goes on, “you are stuck in your own head worrying about how I perceive what happened this weekend. However, there is no need for you to feel so burdened by such thoughts. What happened has not changed how I look at you at all, Will.”  
  
Will doesn’t believe him, but is too upset to trust his voice, so he just shakes his head and keeps on looking at his hands.  
  
“I would not lie to you,” Hannibal adds, “there is no reason to. We got carried away in a moment together, but that is not to say I suddenly wish to be rid of you; quite the opposite. I value all you do for me, and I would be perfectly content to continue just as we have been.”  
  
Will hears what he’s saying, but he doesn’t understand how it makes sense to him. He lifts his head up and looks to a spot just behind Hannibal, avoiding his eyes, “how are we supposed to be normal after throwing myself at you? After whatever I said, I just— Professor Lecter, I can’t even remember it all, but I know—”  
  
“You were intoxicated and looking for company,” Hannibal smiles, Will can see it even while avoiding his face, and it’s soft, so incredibly soft and for some reason aimed at _him._ “Truthfully, seeking me out was probably the safest of all options when you were in such a state.”  
  
“How in the hell do you figure that?” Will is baffled, absolutely shocked at what he’s hearing — after he’d mentally built up the scolding of a lifetime, to be told anything Hannibal is saying has thrown him completely.  
  
“You were at home, not driving while under the influence to seek someone else out. You did not find company in a stranger who would perhaps take advantage of you while out of your usually clear mind. You proved how much you trust me, and I was happy to be that person for you in that moment.”  
  
Confused anger is an emotion that flashes through Will’s brain — Hannibal should be scolding him, he should be telling Will how disappointed he is in his behavior, how uncomfortable a position he is now in all because Will has a stupid little crush on him. Though Hannibal hasn’t mentioned Will’s crush, it hangs thick in the air, just waiting to choke him.  
  
“Professor Lecter,” Will starts, reasoning with himself that he should just take the out even if it doesn’t make sense, “you’re not going to kick me out of your class?”  
  
“Of course not,” Hannibal replies, voice light and genuine, “I had an inclination that you would make that jump, but the thought never even crossed my mind, Will.”  
  
Feeling only marginally better, Will worries his lip before broaching the next subject, afraid to bring it up at all.  
  
“Do you…” He swallows, ducking his head down and away from Hannibal’s searching eyes, “do you think we should still— uh—”  
  
“If you are about to ask me if I will still be helping you with your father, I will truly have to scold you,” Hannibal interrupts him, and while Will can tell he’s joking, the anxiety he feels doesn’t seem to care that it’s not serious. The older man sighs and leans back in his chair once more, “Will, nothing has changed and of course I am going to follow through on our plan. I wish you would not worry so much and just trust that I mean what I say.”  
  
It sounds easier than it actually is, but Will bites his tongue around telling Hannibal as such, still feeling like he could be on thin ice with him even if he’s only been kind through their entire conversation. Instead he nods, managing to make eye contact with him to hopefully show that he’s trying.  
  
Hannibal’s smile is soft, and Will feels lost in the feeling of a man like Hannibal looking at him with such fondness.  
  
“Do you feel better now?”  
  
Will smiles a little, nerves still swarming his head but it’s a little less loud, now.  
  
“Yes,” he breaks their eye contact finally, looking out into the slowly darkening window as he admits, “you seem to have a habit of making me leave here feeling much better, Professor.”  
  
“I am glad to hear that,” Hannibal crosses his ankle over his opposite knee, rocking back in his chair as he eyes Will for a moment longer before asking, “is there anything else on your mind?”  
  
Trying his best to be honest, Will nods his head and brings his hand up to bite at his fingernail, “I went to my dad’s yesterday.”  
  
Hannibal’s pale eyebrows raise just so, tipping his head for Will to proceed.  
  
“It was alright,” Will shrugs, letting his hand fall back into his lap, “I didn’t — I wasn’t sure about what you’d say whenever we were going to talk, so I didn’t bring you up at all.”  
  
“That is alright,” Hannibal’s thumb is now tracing back and forth over his own ankle, seemingly mindlessly, and Will tracks the motion with his eyes. “As I said before, there is no rush and we should move at your pace.”  
  
“Yeah,” he clears his throat, distracted. “He reminded me about a family thing I have to go to in a few weeks.”  
  
“What sort of family thing?”  
  
“A distant cousins wedding,” Will looks away from his ankle, suddenly worried he’d been staring, “it’s a whole weekend trip, and I’m supposed to carpool with him and it’s definitely going to be awful, especially after the wedding because then we’ll have the trip home and he’ll feel like he can bring up the fact that _I’m_ not married or even close to that and—”  
  
“You are very young,” Hannibal interrupts once more, and Will is catching the pattern that he does so whenever he starts up one of his rambly panics. “I do not think your father expects you to settle down right this moment, Will. That being said, it could make for a wonderful opportunity.”  
  
“In what way?”  
  
“In the way where you could bring your boyfriend to an event like this and it would be perfectly appropriate.”  
  
Will gnaws on his lower lip — of course he’d thought the same thing, though he hadn’t been sure where he and Hannibal stood when he thought it. Now though, they seem to be on the same page and Hannibal doesn’t think Will’s a deprived, horny idiot. Or, he does but doesn’t mind.  
  
“Do you think it’s too soon?” Will asks.  
  
“Well you said it’s a few weeks away,” Hannibal shrugs, “have you RSVP’d for the wedding?”  
  
Will snorts, “no.”  
  
“Then you should do so, and make sure to add that you’ll be bringing a plus one.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Will worries aloud, “I’ll have to talk about you with my dad first, and even then… are you sure it’ll be okay?”  
  
Hannibal nods without hesitance, “the idea of you suffering an entire weekend alone with not just your father, but your whole family, is very unappealing to me. I could not, in good conscience, allow you to go without me.”  
  
Wrapping his head around the almost too sweet words, Will just nods, “alright.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Hannibal had been telling the truth when he’d told Will that nothing between them was different — he treats Will the same as he had been, texts just as often as he usually had, and doesn’t bring up the incident at all. It feels like it’s no longer an issue, but simultaneously feels like it’s always present between them. It isn’t exactly awkward, but Will can feel the weight of it every time he manages to look into Hannibal’s eyes, which isn’t even an altogether unpleasant feeling.  
  
The week passes as usual, and with Hannibal no longer a cause for his anxiety to flare up, he’s taken to worrying about the conversation with his dad that he will be having when he next sees the man. Sometimes it feels easy. His dad already knows he’s gay, it’s just that he won’t admit it. However, it’s another thing entirely to have to jump the hurdle of sexuality while dragging another into it; even one so willing as Hannibal.  
  
Via text, Will shares his worries with the older man about visiting his dad and bringing up the _boyfriend_ conversation, not to mention requesting for the wedding invite so he can personally make sure that his plus one actually gets counted for.  
  
Hannibal doesn’t reply to his text quickly, and Will shouldn’t let that bother him — it’s Friday night and Hannibal has a life. He may even have a date. It wouldn’t surprise Will at all, considering how gone for this man he is, it seems improbable that no one else wants to worship him as well.  
  
He doesn’t dwell on how much the thought of his professor with a real date hurts him, because it isn’t his business, and no matter how sweet and warm Hannibal is towards Will, what they have is not real. It’s just for show, and they’d agreed to the song and dance so Will has no right to feel jealousy clawing up his chest and throat, threatening to make his eyes water.  
  
(Not _cry,_ water. Because somehow he can write that off a little easier.)  
  
Nonetheless, he tries to busy himself with his homework but it mostly entails staring at his open book until it’s time for him to leave for work, picking up a longer shift he’d stupidly agreed to. Though, the distraction will be welcome all the same.  
  
  
It’s just as Will is clocking in for work that his phone buzzes in his pocket. He slips his hand down to grab it, smiling politely at Matthew as the younger moves around the back of the store to gather his things to leave.  
  
 **_Hannibal Calling_ ** **_  
_** **_  
_** Will pauses, considering. There’s no one else in the shop but himself and Matthew, who is getting ready to leave, and he can’t think of a reason he _shouldn’t_ answer.  
  
He swipes the green _accept call_ icon and lifts the phone to his ear, “hello?”  
  
“Hello, Will. Is this a bad time?”  
  
Will does another courtesy glance around the empty shop, “not really, I’m at work but I’m literally alone.”  
  
Matthew clearly looks up and over to Will, and Will pointedly ignores him.  
  
“Oh, I was not aware you were working tonight,” Hannibal hums out a little sound, “a shame.”  
  
“How come?” Will ponders as he uses one hand to try and slip his bulky winter coat off.  
  
“It’s quite late notice, but after receiving your latest text I was going to offer a dinner invitation,” he trails off, and in the background of the call Will can hear the telltale sign of him putting something in a cupboard.  
  
“Oh,” Will gapes for a probably too long a moment, immediately wishing he could leave and go spend the evening with the older man, but of course he promised Matthew he’d cover for him tonight. “I won’t be off early enough for that, I’m gonna be here pretty late.”  
  
“I figured as much. Though I would like to talk to you to calm your nerves,” Hannibal says, and Will feels a flush heat his cheeks at the implication that not only is _Hannibal_ his clutch, but that Hannibal _knows._ _  
__  
_“I wish I could,” Will swallows, lowering his voice as he walks closer to Matthew to hang his coat, “especially because it’s always so slow on Fridays so I’ll just be here alone and bored.”  
  
Hannibal makes a sound like he’s clicking his tongue, and when he speaks next he sounds just a bit different than before, though he can’t place what’s changed, “perhaps another time, then.”  
  
Will frowns, mentally cursing Matthew and his own kindness.  
  
“Yeah, of course.”  
  
“Have a good night, Will.”  
  
He ducks his head down, muttering a soft, “you too, Hannibal.”  
  
Matthew doesn’t say anything about the phone call — doesn’t even thank Will for covering for him after he’d just eavesdropped on his personal call, fully aware that Will could have other plans if not for him.  
  
The logical part of his brain tells him that Matthew had _already_ thanked him when he’d agreed and it isn’t necessary for him to do so again. However the burn of being denied Hannibal’s presence when the other man is offering it is enough to sour him enough to not even respond when Matthew bids him farewell with a polite smile and wave as he leaves.  
  
Perhaps Will is petty.  
  
He tugs his books out of his backpack and splays them over the inner counter, setting up everything and making himself a coffee because he deserves it after the missed opportunity, and then gets nice and comfortable on a stool with his drink and studies.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Just over an hour later Will has finished his coffee and abandoned his studying for scrolling aimlessly on his phone, incredibly disinterested with anything that requires concentrating.  
  
The time reads 8:32 pm when the little bell above the door dings, and Will actually perks up in excitement at the thought of having something to do. He lifts his head to plaster on his customer service smile and freezes, confused to be met with Hannibal entering the little store in his peacoat and scarf, carrying a large bag in one hand.  
  
“Hannibal,” he greets, fighting the urge to smile, “what are you doing here?”  
  
“Hello, Will,” Hannibal does smile, striding his way up to the counter with an air of confidence Will has yet to see in any other person, “because you were unable to join me, I decided I would bring dinner to you.”  
  
“I’m at work,” Will murmurs, eyeing the bag as Hannibal uses his free hand to unravel his scarf.  
  
“Yes,” he says, nodding his head to a table near a window, “I can see what a busy boy you are, what with all these customers lined up out the door.”  
  
Will is helpless to follow Hannibal, biting his lower lip when he grins despite himself — Hannibal’s humor is almost always of the sarcastic variety and it is very difficult for Will to pretend he isn’t funny.  
  
“So what, you just— you just whipped up dinner and brought it to me just because I whined at you a little?”  
  
Hannibal perches the bag on the center of the table and starts pulling out containers, not looking up from his task as he says, “yes.”  
  
Stood frozen for a moment, Will watches Hannibal pay him no mind at all as he starts opening lids of glass tupperware and pulling cutlery out alongside the food. From the angle, Will can only see his profile and he’s momentarily stunned silent by the overwhelming aura of elegance and comfort. He’s broad and tall and all sharp edges, but his hands move surely as he sets out the meal he’s provided for Will, gentle with every move. The whiplash of Will’s attraction boomeranging between the base appeal of Hannibal as a handsome, confident older man who could so easily provide for him while also being strong enough to use him like a ragdoll, and how endearing he is for cooking Will a dinner and driving all the way to him, unaware of how warm that makes Will’s insides turn — it’s crashing on him all at once.  
  
Will swallows, stepping closer to the man and taking one of the two seats as he tries to sort out his mind.  
  
“You didn’t have to do that,” he eventually says, though by now it’s been long enough silence that Hannibal could have forgotten what he’d even said last.  
  
“I know,” Hannibal says, taking his coat off and hanging it over the back of his own chair before he sits. He unbuttons the ends of his shirt sleeves and rolls them up just enough to have Will’s eyes drifting to the veins of his forearm before snapping back up to meet Hannibal’s warm gaze, “cooking is something I enjoy doing, and if I make enough for two it surely does more good in your belly than in my refrigerator.”  
  
Will nods, reasoning sound enough even though he thinks he could be blushing at the act of service paired with soft words trying to reassure him.  
  
“Well thanks,” Will clears his throat, watching the way Hannibal’s lips turn up just so at the corners.  
  
Hannibal hands Will a fork and looks down to the still steaming food between them — a pasta with a sauce that smells heavenly, though there’s several other containers spread out between them that are too steamed up for Will to see into the glass. He wants to dig in immediately but waits for Hannibal to take a bite first so as to not seem rude.  
  
“Think nothing of it, it’s my pleasure,” Hannibal says, spearing noodles with his fork as he looks at Will, paying the food less attention that Will would hope because his eyes staring into his own is quite the distraction, “I would like to talk about your worries about the impending conversation with your father, though.”  
  
Nodding, Will mimics Hannibal and allows himself a bite before opening up the floodgates of this conversation — he lets out an embarrassing, closed mouth moan and then quickly ducks his head to avoid having to look at Hannibal after making such a sound. He swallows, peeking up from under his bangs to see Hannibal’s eyes on him. Specifically, on his throat. Will takes another bite, this time sans pornograpic noises.  
  
“Tell me what you’re afraid of,” Hannibal prompts between his own bites, and Will is almost thankful for the distraction of conversation, even if it does mean being open and honest about his insecurities.  
  
“That he’ll yell,” he says simply, but then shakes his head, “not— not yell, but, I guess what he’ll be _saying._ Does that make sense?”  
  
Hannibal hums, urging him to go on with a nod of his head.  
  
“I’m not great with confrontation,” Will admits, though he thinks Hannibal already likely knows this about him, it’s difficult to say aloud. “It’s kind of why this is such a problem. I just… I let him talk over me because it’s easier to lie down than to stand up for myself.”  
  
“It’s your way of protecting yourself,” Hannibal sighs, a crease between his eyebrows that shows his displeasure, “but in doing so, you are only putting off the issue and building it.”  
  
“I know that,” Will stuffs another forkful into his mouth.  
  
“That’s why we’re doing this, though,” Hannibal’s voice is soft, though Will doesn’t look up to see whatever expression he’s wearing. “You will not have to face it alone. Confronting your fears is scary, but if you never allow yourself to do so, you’ll always feel empty. Your father lashing out at you is a possibility, but that isn’t to say the repercussions won’t be worth it some day.”  
  
Will gnaws on his bottom lip, wanting the words to sink in and rid him of his anxieties completely, but even Hannibal doesn’t have that type of magic.  
  
“What if it goes horribly,” he asks, whisper quiet and ashamed, “what if he tells me I can’t bring you because I’d be embarrassing him by being with a man, and he’ll look at me with the judging face he has, and bring up my mom for some reason, as if that matters at all to me, and if—”  
  
“Will,” Hannibal’s hand reaches across the table to curl around Will’s wrist, gentle and firm all at once, grounding him. “Breathe.”  
  
“I am,” he says, even as he obeys and takes a deep inhale, breathing out slowly through his nose, “I was.”  
  
Hannibal’s smile is sweet, eyes warm like honey. His thumb presses softly into the delicate skin of Will’s inner wrist, petting back and forth minutely as he waits for him to pointedly breathe again.  
  
Will does.  
  
“If your father tells you that you cannot bring me — you’re worried about that?”  
  
Will nods, mentally grappling at the fact that Hannibal is holding him tenderly by his fucking wrist.  
  
“Will, how old are you?” He asks.  
  
He blanches, “you know how old I am.”  
  
“Yes, but tell me,” Hannibal prompts with a small raise of his eyebrows.  
  
“I’m twenty.”  
  
“You’re twenty,” Hannibal repeats, thumb still moving in little swipes against his skin, “you are a grown adult, who is allowed to bring a date to an event even if it displeases his father. Would you agree?”  
  
Will frowns, “I guess, but if he—”  
  
“If he forbids you from bringing your partner to a family members wedding at a public venue that he does not own, how is he going to enforce this rule on you?”  
  
Will feels like a child arguing with an adult — he sees Hannibal’s point, that he can legally do what he wants. But Hannibal isn’t seeing the repercussions of going against his father in the same light that Will is.  
  
“He can’t, but he’ll make damn sure to make me feel like shit,” his voice cracks, so he swallows, eyes dropping to Hannibal’s fingers wrapped so sweetly around his wrist. “He can’t _do_ anything about it, other than remind me how disgusting I am and make sure my family knows how disappointed he is in me.”  
  
“You seek his approval,” Hannibal concludes, “I cannot promise you that. I hope dearly that you will have it, and he will be able to look past whatever it is blocking him from accepting you as you are, but I cannot guarantee anything other than my support of you. If this crashes and burns, I will be there to help you sweep up the mess.”  
  
Refusing to let that promise make him cry, Will just swallows and nods.  
  
“You’re going Sunday, yes?”  
  
Will nods once more, not trusting his voice.  
  
“When you’re done, would you like to come to my home and tell me about it?”  
  
The amount of kindness is overwhelming, and Will is so unused to having a support system that he isn’t sure what to do with it. It doesn’t help that his infatuation with Hannibal is clearly some sort of complex and he just keeps feeding into it with every conversation they have.  
  
“You don’t have to offer things like that,” Will shakes his head, “you have already done too much for me and given up so much of your time, Hannibal.”  
  
“I do not feel like I’ve given up anything,” Hannibal argues, cocking his head, “I’ve told you before that I would not offer anything I was not willing to give. I think after the stress of the conversation you are clearly not looking forward to having, coming and spending some time with me could be beneficial. I’m also not fond of the idea of you spending an evening alone and hurt if he makes a rude remark. If it isn’t going well I daresay you should just stand up and leave before he has the chance to offend.”  
  
“Leave and come to you?” Will asks, feeling heat in his cheeks at the implication that he can run to Hannibal at the drop of a hat and he’ll mend his wounds.  
  
“Yes,” he says, fingers curling once more around Will’s wrist before pulling his hand away — Will misses the contact immediately and brings his hands below the table, wrapping his own hand around the same spot Hannibal had been holding. “I can make something for us again, and you can vent any frustrations to me freely.”  
  
“You don’t—”  
  
“I am offering,” Hannibal cuts him off, “you do not have to take me up on the offer, but I want you to know it is available for you to take. I will be home Sunday for the entire day except for the morning.”  
  
Will chews on this information, swallowing around the urge to confirm that he will be there and instead asking, “what are you doing in the morning?”  
  
Hannibal spears a noodle and drags it through the sauce, “I have a morning run before I go to the gym.”  
  
Will wishes he didn’t know that because now his eyes are drawn to the man’s broad shoulders and sturdy looking chest, muttering a soft, “of course you do.”  
  
“It’s important to stay active,” Hannibal seems to hear him anyways, “I can’t always make it to the gym, but on weekends I play tennis with a friend.”  
  
That annoying bout of unhealthy jealousy churns something aggravating inside Will, unhappy that Hannibal would have another to spend time with that _isn’t_ him — he finally releases his wrist from under the table and picks his fork back up, distracting himself with the meal he’s been given. He doesn’t play tennis with Hannibal on Sunday mornings, but the older man has given him his fair share of attention. There’s nothing to be jealous of.  
  
“I’ve never played,” he says, taking another bite.  
  
Hannibal hums, “perhaps another lesson I could give you. Second to cooking, of course.”  
  
A bouquet of flowers bloom in Will’s chest — Hannibal had taken the bait without even a moment's thought. The bait he’d cast unintentionally. Or, at least offhandedly. Wanting, but not hopeful.  
  
“By the time you’re done with me, I may just be a functioning person,” Will jokes, warmed at the sight of the laugh lines at the corners of Hannibal’s eyes when he smiles cheekily back at him.  
  
Deeper and deeper he spirals, aware and foolish.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
When Sunday rolls around, Will is slightly less anxious than he probably should be. If that has something to do with Hannibal sweetly offering him a safety net of comfort to run to if he needs it, then that’s neither here nor there.  
  
The game plays too loud as usual so that the opportunity for conversation is less likely, but Will doesn’t mind. He sits in his usual spot at the corner of the couch with his feet tucked up underneath him and his phone hidden behind his thigh so he can text Beverly without seeming rude and uninterested.  
  
Just as usual, his father doesn’t really speak to him until halftime, though it’s the same run-through of questions he feels the need to ask every week. Once those have run their course, Will swallows and takes a deep breath, turning on the couch so his back is pressed against the arm and he’s facing his father.  
  
“I’ve been thinking about Frederick’s wedding,” he says, watching as his dad turns to engage, clearly thinking they’d finished talking now. He just hums in response, raising his eyebrows, waiting. He absolutely will not chicken out, not after how reassuring Hannibal had been, not after the promise of spending the evening with him if it turns sour — and it may not even be necessary. It could be fine. “Do you have the invite still?”  
  
His dad nods, bending at the waist to shuffle through the stacks of paper and mail piled up on the coffee table in front of them. His eyebrows are furrowed as he searches, muttering, “I already told ya when it is.”  
  
“Yeah,” Will nods, eyes on the envelope his dad grabs, pulling the floral invitation out and reading over it. “Can I see it?”  
  
His dad frowns, handing it over, “it’s the weekend I said, see?”  
  
There in cursive writing reads the date, time, and venue for the weekend. The backside has a list of hotels nearby, considerate of family who will likely have to travel. Just to be safe, Will snaps a picture of the front and back, sure to get the RSVP information so he can rest assured that Hannibal will be counted in the guest list.  
  
“I wanted to talk to you,” Will says, handing the little stationery paper back to his father, trying not to lose his nerve — the promise that he already has the information guides his confidence, Hannibal’s voice reminding him that he’s an adult and can do what he wants regardless. “I think I’d like to bring a plus one.”  
  
“Oh,” his father’s eyes round a bit, stunned, and then he nods, turning to face towards Will a bit more — open and welcoming, but Will doesn’t let it get his hopes up, “that’ll be fine, she can catch a ride with us, I ‘spose.”  
  
Will, having seen his father’s train of thought in the proud look in his eyes, grimaces.  
  
“Dad,” he shakes his head, meeting his eyes in the hopes that he’ll see — that he’ll just _see_ for once. “It’s not… not like that.”  
  
Will can see the dawning of understanding cross his features, but there’s still a glimmer of hope, still a weak grasp onto what he wants to hear, “just a friend, then?”  
  
The urge to cry rises, but Will is able to subdue it — he cannot give him the satisfaction of seeing him vulnerable when he won’t even care.  
  
“No, we’re together,” he says, though he can hear how soft his voice has gotten, shy and timid. “It’s getting serious, dad.”  
  
“Will, you aren’t tellin’ me what I think you are,” there’s a grimace from the older man instead now, a look of something akin to pain as his upper lip curls back and his eyebrows scrunch. “Tell me that’s not what you’re sayin’.”  
  
“His name is Hannibal,” Will breathes, watching the look of pain turn minutely into one of disgust, “he’s important to me, and I want to bring him to the wedding. I’ve already invited him—”  
  
“Why’d ya do that for?” His dad doesn’t yell, but his voice is exasperated all the same, “Will, you're not bringin’ another boy to a family event. It just— you say all ya want that this is what ya want, but you’re my son, you’ll bring a nice girl or no one. We ain’t gonna parade that around.”  
  
Tears begrudgingly sting at Will’s eyes, so he does his best to keep from blinking. He shakes his head, clearing his throat of the disappointed lump stuck there suddenly, saying, “no, he’s coming. I don’t care if you want him there or not, he matters to me and you need to just— just accept it. Just accept _me.”_ _  
__  
_His dad stares at him a bit dumbstruck for a long moment before running a hand down his face, sighing heavily.  
  
“I wish you’d just realize what a mistake it is, that you’re doin’ this when you don’t have to—”  
  
“I’m not going to be alone for my whole life because you don’t want me to be happy.”  
  
“I do!” His father does shout now, slamming the beer he’d been holding in one hand down on the table, “I want you to be happy, you’re my boy— ya don’t know what’s best for ya and—”  
  
“And you do?!” Will shouts back, embarrassed at the tears that fall despite the way he fought them. He ignores them. “You don’t know _shit_ about what makes me happy!”  
  
“And _that_ makes you happy?” The revulsion rolls off his tongue like it makes him sick to even ask, twisting the knife he’d already plunged into Will’s heart, “bringin’ another boy to your bed? Makin’ me feel like this?”  
  
“He’s not just a boy!” Will stands now, marching to where he’d kicked off his shoes as he pulls them on, “he’s a man that cares about me, and he teaches me things and he makes sure I drink water and that I get home safe! _He_ knows what’s best for me more than you do, and you’re my own father!”  
  
Will bends to fix the laces on his shoes, but his hands shake with built up adrenaline and anxiety, his eyes blurred with angry tears as he tries his best to leave, just like Hannibal told him he could.  
  
“Just because you’re young and think ya know everything—” his father cuts himself off, shaking his head and taking a long pull from his beer before clanking it back down, “ya know what, bring him, see if I fuckin’ care.”  
  
“I will,” he snaps, voice cracking as he stands back upright, grabbing his coat from where he threw it over the arm of the couch he’d been pressed up against, “and I’m gonna have a good time, and we’re gonna wear matching outfits and dance together and— and you can just get over it or never see me again, I don’t care anymore.”  
  
“You’re leavin’?” He asks, still in his same spot at the opposite corner of the couch. The game is back on, but he hasn’t noticed or is purposefully not turning his attention away just yet, “you’re really gonna just go?”  
  
“Why would I stay here?” Will asks, angrily wiping the tears on his cheeks away while he blinks the next round back, “so you can tell me how you’re not proud of me and how much me being happy with a man hurts _you?”_ _  
__  
_“I never said I wasn’t proud—”  
  
“You didn’t fuckin’ have to,” Will croaks, pushing his arms through his coat sleeves, “I see it every time you look at me, ever since I first told you. You think that feels good for me? Or should I just be worrying about how _you_ feel only?”  
  
“Will—”  
  
“I’m leaving,” Will swallows, patting his jeans pockets to make sure he’s got his things, clearing his throat as he slips his keys out of his pocket, “me and Hannibal will see you at the wedding.”  
  
“We were gonna ride together,” he says, voice suddenly softer as he stands and follows behind Will as he strides to the front door.  
  
Will laughs, broken and humorless, “well if you want to try and be a decent father for a whole weekend then we still could — the three of us.”  
  
“Will—”  
  
“See ya,” he cuts him off without even looking back, storming his way to his car as the screen door slams shut behind him.  
  
He doesn’t look back towards the house as he pulls away from the curb, just drives shaky and bleary eyed down a few blocks and pulls over in front of an abandoned corner store, throwing his car into park and covering his face with his hands, trying to compose himself but struggling terribly to catch his breath at all.  
  
His phone is burning a hole in his pocket, begging him to use it to reach out to his lifeline. He aches so badly for Hannibal’s comfort, but the flipside of being the one to _ask_ for it is stomach churning. He doesn’t want to be a burden, and Hannibal would never admit to him that he is, but Will knows that after enough times of him reaching out with one foot off the ledge, waiting for Hannibal to pull him to safety, the man will grow bored and resentful, wonder why he’s taken an interest in the first place.  
  
 _But he offered,_ his brain whispers, and the thought has his heart slowing just a bit. _He wouldn’t offer if he didn’t want to deliver._ _  
__  
_Sucking in a few more sharp breaths, Will digs his phone out of his pocket and swipes it unlocked, going to his recently used contacts and hovering over Hannibal’s name.  
  
He could call Beverly. She’s listened to Will bitch about his father enough to know the drill.  
  
But he doesn’t crave Beverly’s voice in his ear, reassuring him and soothing him.  
  
He slides his thumb over Hannibal’s name, watching as the screen changes to _Dialing Hannibal_ with baited breath.  
  
The man answers after only two short rings, a gentle, “hello?”  
  
“Hey,” Will replies, voice still audibly choked up.  
  
“Will,” Hannibal murmurs, clicking his tongue, “it didn’t go well, I take it?”  
  
Will feels his chin crumble as another wave of emotion hits, shaking his head, “not really, no.”  
  
“Will you tell me what happened?”  
  
“Mhm,” Will agrees, trying to swallow, “I’m in my car— I don’t… I can’t drive yet, my mind is too distracted.”  
  
“That’s alright,” Hannibal assures him, and Will brings his free hand up to gnaw on his thumb nail, “we can talk when you get here. Right now, I’d like you to just listen to me for a moment, okay?”  
  
“Okay,” Will blindly agrees.  
  
“I’m tremendously proud of you, and I think, no matter the outcome, you should be proud of yourself,” Hannibal says with such conviction that Will believes him, having no reason to not trust him. “Take a deep breath for me, Will.”  
  
He obeys, letting it out in a loud puff of air as Hannibal drones down the phone, _good, good._ _  
__  
_“Would you like me to come and get you instead?” Hannibal asks, only making Will’s heart clench further, “I could bring you back to your car later, if you don’t feel well enough to drive.”  
  
“No, no, I’ll be fine, that’s not— not necessary. I can get there, I just need a minute to stop freaking out.”  
  
“Do you like sweets?” Hannibal asks, throwing Will for a bit of a loop.  
  
“Sweets?”  
  
“Yes,” Hannibal affirms, “desserts or just treats, do you like them?”  
  
Will pauses, confused, but answering, “yes?”  
  
“What kinds?”  
  
Will frowns, thinking. “It depends? Desserts and candies are different.”  
  
“Then say we’re talking treats. Baked goods, but not necessarily only desserts.”  
  
“Uh,” Will swallows, trying to mentally list his favorites but his brain is moving slowly. “I eat a lot of pastries because they’re at work, so those. But they’re not my favorites.”  
  
Hannibal hums, soft and rumbly right in Will’s ear, “what is?”  
  
Will smiles a bit, feeling his cheeks blush in preparation for his childish admission, “you’re too elegant to indulge in it but… those cupcakes at the store that are like, stacked with three inches of frosting? I like those.”  
  
“Alright,” Hannibal is moving, Will can hear the shuffling on the other end, “I’m certainly not _too elegant_ for much of anything, Will Graham,” he adds, warm and teasing, before asking, “what flavor?”  
  
“Chocolate with vanilla buttercream frosting, obviously,” Will chuckles, rubbing his bitten raw thumb against his index finger, “extra points if they’ve got the artificial sprinkles that taste like nothing but make it look pretty.”  
  
Hannibal breathes a little laugh down the line, and Will realizes he’s not in the middle of hyperventilating, nor crying anymore. His eyes are sore but dry, and his skin is tacky with old tears, but overall, he feels a bit better.  
  
“I think I can drive now,” Will says, embarrassed to have taken up more of Hannibal’s time, “I don’t need to come over, I don’t wanna waste your Sunday—”  
  
“I will leave the front door open for you,” Hannibal interrupts, though Will can’t find it in himself to think him rude, “when you arrive just walk in and yell for me, I’ll be close by. Alright?”  
  
“Hannibal—”  
  
“Alright?”  
  
Will pauses, flustered and warm in his chest, “alright.”  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The drive to Hannibal’s is a blur — Will isn’t quite done _feeling_ everything, but he’s at least in control of his actions enough to be able to safely drive. When he’s almost there his phone vibrates in his pocket, but he ignores it to maintain focus on the road. It’s likely Hannibal checking his whereabouts or one of his few friends, both of which can wait until he’s done driving.  
  
He’s a bit uncomfortable at the idea of just walking into Hannibal’s house, even if that’s what the man expects him to do. He sits in his car in Hannibal’s driveway for a few extra minutes, nearly driving away and just telling Hannibal via text that he wanted to be at home instead. It’s rude — especially because he’s waiting for Will to show up. Tapping restlessly against the steering wheel, Will looks at the massive house before him, seeing movement inside that catches his eye.  
  
Hannibal is standing inside a room Will believes is the kitchen, though he’d only been here once before and his memory isn’t the best. His head is down and his shoulders are moving, but the window isn’t long enough to show him much more than the little glimpse inside Hannibal’s home.  
  
Looking at his downturned head is enough to nag at Will’s guilt, and he sighs and switches the engine off, unbuckling before he can think better of it. He can’t be impolite to a man like Hannibal. He’d surely remember it and let it change his perception of Will, and he’s already extremely preoccupied with thoughts of Hannibal’s perception of him, so adding _disrespectful,_ or _unreliable_ to that list is enough to push Will forward and up the stairs to the front door.  
  
He swallows, turning the handle and stepping inside, very unsure of himself, closing the door gently behind him. The front room is empty, but he can hear movement deeper in the house. There’s light clattering, a drawer opening and closing, and a soft hum that Will recognizes as Hannibal’s immediately. He doesn’t know whatever tune he’s murmuring, but it soothes something awful in Will, carrying his feet towards the sound.  
  
“Hannibal?” He calls, still nervous of being in his home without the man knowing he’s arrived. He tucks his hands into his coat pockets as he gets closer to the sounds, a recognizable scent of chocolate hitting his senses the deeper he goes. “Hannibal, I’m here.”  
  
Hannibal pauses his humming and answers back, “come join me in the kitchen, please.”  
  
Will obeys, walking down the corridor without paying attention to the art pieces on the wall, eyes set on the arch at the end that leads to that delicious smell as well as the equally tempting man. He feels rude for a minute, realizing he’s still in his coat and wearing shoes, thinking he could run back and take them off at the door, but then worrying if Hannibal will think he’s busy snooping around. Instead, he takes a step into the tiled floor of the kitchen and fights an immediate smile at the sight of Hannibal.  
  
Usually seen in extravagant three-piece suits, it’s always a treasure to see him dressed down, even if he’s still in an obviously fitted pair of slacks with a button down tucked into them. The apron is a wonderful touch, simple but shocking all the same, though _of course_ Hannibal is the one man in the world still wearing an apron to protect his clothes.  
  
“Hello Will,” he greets Will with an easy smile, looking up from a glass bowl on the counter that he’s hand mixing some sort of batter in, “how was the drive?”  
  
“Fine,” Will swallows, nudging the toe of his shoe against tiles, “what are you doing?”  
  
“I’m baking,” Hannibal replies, though Will has gathered that from the separated bowls lining the counter and the empty cupcake tray next to the man. “Would you like to help?”  
  
Will bites into his bottom lip, the elephant in the room overwhelming.  
  
 _He’s making chocolate cupcakes._  
  
“I’m not very good, but I could be useful,” he manages, unbuttoning his coat as he enters the room fully. He rests his coat over the back of a tall island chair. “What do you want me to do?”  
  
And so Hannibal assigns him little jobs — he’s the sous chef, helping the older man by slowly adding the dry ingredients while he mixes. Flour poofs up in a little cloud, and Hannibal grins, looking to Will’s now messy shirt as he stirs the mixture.  
  
“I should have fetched you an apron,” he says, nodding his head towards the bowl as a sign to add more. Will does. “How rude of me, I apologize.”  
  
“It’s fine,” Will shakes his head, more gentle with the dry mix now that it’s exploded on him, “it won’t stain or anything.”  
  
“No, surely not,” Hannibal agrees, just as the oven beeps. He meets Will’s eyes again, “would you add the liners to the tray for me?”  
  
And he’s pretty sure if Hannibal ended every request he has with, _for me?_ Will would be helpless to whatever he’s asking.  
  
He doesn’t ask until the cupcakes are actually in the oven, and when he does, he can’t make himself look at Hannibal. His eyes stay on his shoes, somehow making it easier to get the words out even if he does feel silly for saying them.  
  
“Why’re you making cupcakes for me?”  
  
Hannibal moves about the kitchen fluidly, scooping up bowls and setting them into the kitchen sink as he answers, “you’re helping.”  
  
Will sees the divergence, but can’t let it slide. “Okay, why are we making cupcakes?”  
  
“They’re your favorite,” Hannibal says simply, leaning his back against the counter as he tosses a kitchen towel over his shoulder. His hands raise to rest near his hips on either side, and Will is definitely distracted by the overly domestic look on his professor — equally warmed by the simplicity of his reasoning.  
  
“Yes,” he says, feeling dumb.  
  
“That’s why,” Hannibal shrugs, a forign movement that seems like he doesn’t do often, “there doesn’t need to be a reason other than you like them.”  
  
“Hannibal—” Will swallows, feeling the stupid lump rise in his throat but for a whole different reason than the last time it was lodged there, “that’s—”  
  
“I’ve already made the frosting,” Hannibal cuts him off, lowering his head to make eye contact as best he can while Will avoids it. “When they’re done cooling, you’ll help me frost them, won’t you?”  
  
Feeling his chin crumble, Will nods.  
  
“Good,” Hannibal’s voice is so soft, and Will feels so small in his presence; feels childish for always being so emotional, knows he needs to get a grip but can’t seem to find one, “Will.”  
  
“Hm?” He can’t make actual words, afraid of opening the floodgates.  
  
Hannibal’s arm reaches out, his palm open and fingers extended. He wants Will to take him by the hand — is waiting and asking permission to be able to grab onto him. Will watches for a moment, staring at the offering, wanting the comfort tremendously but worried about taking it.  
  
The older man doesn’t move or waver, just watches Will watch him — he can feel his eyes on him, and ultimately that’s what makes the decision for him.  
  
Will grabs onto the hand with his smaller one and lets himself be dragged into the sympathetic embrace. Hannibal’s scent envelopes him completely, Will’s face pressed into his chest and strong arms suddenly wrapped around him. A sob threatens to rise, but Will doesn’t allow it, instead pressing his nose against the collar of Hannibal’s shirt and taking a deep, greedy inhale of his scent. It’s mixed in with the sweet aroma of the chocolate, which is nearly a deadly combo for Will’s senses.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, feeling his eyes growing wet again. He closes them, offended at his own body for not being able to react to kindness in a normal way. Hannibal’s palms slide up and down his arms, soft and comforting, and then he wraps them tight around Will’s back, his own arms trapped between their chests.  
  
“Stop being sorry,” Hannibal answers, voice pressed into the top of Will’s head, “you are allowed to have happy things without pushing them away, or being upset about them.”  
  
“You’re only doing it to make me feel better,” Will’s voice shakes, and his face heats in embarrassment, “I shouldn’t need someone to _make_ me feel better, I should just be able to… to—”  
  
“There is no shame in accepting comfort from another,” Hannibal quietly disagrees, hands soothing up and down his back now, “what would be wrong if I were making your favorite cupcakes just for you, hm? What is wrong about that?”  
  
“It’s— it’s not your job—”  
  
“No, and you didn’t ask,” Hannibal’s fingers creep up the back of his neck, scratching lightly against his curls, “perhaps I wanted chocolate cupcakes with vanilla buttercream frosting, have you considered that, Will?”  
  
Will can’t help but smile at this, shaking his head against the older man’s chest before pulling back to purposefully meet his eyes, “I hadn’t considered that, no.”  
  
A hand raises gently to his face, and then Hannibal’s thumb is wiping under his eyes with such care that Will thinks he could cry again at the tenderness of it all. Touch is never his go-to for comfort, though, thinking about it, he doesn’t think he _has_ a go-to for comfort.  
  
“I’ve made all of these for me, in fact,” Hannibal runs with the lie, and Will’s fingers clench into fists against his chest, tugging at the fabric of his shirt. “I’m just going to share because that’s the polite thing to do. Afterall, you did your fair share of help, didn’t you?”  
  
It’s sweet — a sweet out, and Will needs to take it now before making a fool of himself again.  
  
“I think my fair share would be helping you with the dishes, too,” he says, deflating when Hannibal’s arms leave his body — he can’t stay lodged against him forever, despite how much of a dream that would be.  
  
Hannibal smiles as they part, leading Will the short distance to the sink and rolling his sleeves up a bit higher to protect from the water. The muscles in his forearms clench and tighten with the movement, and Will feels a whole new wave of _something_ at the sight.  
  
Will’s phone vibrates in his pocket, just once, which reminds Will of the unanswered text he’d gotten when driving. He slips his phone out and quickly unlocks it while Hannibal plugs the sink and starts filling it with warm water and soap.  
  
 **_Two New Messages_ ** **_  
_** **_  
_** The latest reads that it’s from Matthew, the boy confirming that he will be able to cover Will’s shifts for the weekend that he’ll be going to the wedding. He types back a quick _thanks_ with a little thumbs up emoji before backing out to see the other text, though he expects it would be from Hannibal anyways.  
  
Instead, he finds himself a bit frozen, reading over the words several times before really registering them.  
  
 **_New Message From:_ ** **_  
_** **_Dad_ ** **_  
_** _Did you get home safe?_ _  
__2:28 pm_ _  
__  
_He’s never once had his father check his safety, and he feels his hopes rise. Maybe he’d actually been listening when Will chewed him out.  
  
Still, he’s angry at the man.  
  
 **_To: Dad_ ** **_  
_** _I’m safely at my boyfriend’s house._ _  
__3:16 pm_ _  
__  
_“Will?” Hannibal gently touches his wrist, calling for Will’s attention.  
  
“Sorry,” he locks his phone and sets it on the counter, turning to face the sink, “I’m good now.”  
  
Hannibal gives him a bit of a side-eye, their arms pressed together. He cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t press, even if it looks like he’d like to ask Will about it. Instead, he starts scrubbing a bowl clean before handing it to Will for rinsing and drying — something that feels very grown up to Will. Despite being a _grown up,_ he doesn’t do things like wash the dishes and leave them out on a drying rack. They use paper plates and hardly cook at the house in general.  
  
It’s a pleasant kind of weird, but that may have something to do with the warmth still pumping through Will’s veins from Hannibal holding him against his chest and wiping away his tears.  
  


* * *

  
  
By the time the cupcakes have cooled enough for frosting, Will is feeling a lot more comfortable around the older man — him being in the know about his puppy-crush is certainly a hurdle for him, but Hannibal doesn’t make him feel any way that isn’t somewhere under the spectrum of _good,_ so ignoring his obvious attraction leaves them both enjoying the company, he thinks.  
  
He’s frosting while Hannibal shreds chocolate, telling Will that as much as he wishes he could recreate the rainbow sprinkles that stores sprinkle over the icing, he purposefully doesn’t own any and they’ll have to make do with just adding more chocolate. Will has no complaints.  
  
“Do you want to talk about what happened at your father’s today?” Hannibal asks, and while Will doesn’t want to dredge it up again, he had already told Hannibal that he’d talk about it with him earlier. And considering he’s in on this little plan, he kind of has a right to know the details of it.  
  
“I made sure to take a picture of the invite so I could RSVP for us, since I knew he wouldn’t be okay with it,” Will says, painting the creamy white over the perfectly raised cupcake, which looks much better than the store bought kind already. “I told him about you and he freaked out, so I yelled back at him.”  
  
“You yelled?” Hannibal asks, arching an eyebrow that looks far too pleased for such a response from Will. “I cannot imagine you shouting.”  
  
“I don’t usually, but he deserved it — I told him that he can’t tell me what’s best for me when he doesn’t know me and he got this look in his eye when I got up and left. He was really surprised, I think, that I didn’t just back down and accept that I lost.”  
  
“You did not lose,” Hannibal assures him, pinching some shredded chocolate and sprinkling it over the top of one of the frosted cupcakes. “I am very happy you stood your ground.”  
  
“Thanks,” Will murmurs, cursing softly as he accidentally paints icing over the tip of his thumb. He sets down the cupcake with the other finished ones and brings his thumb to his mouth, sucking the cream off.  
  
He doesn’t notice the way Hannibal watches, and plucks up another cupcake and sets to working on that one too.  
  
  
  
At dinner, Hannibal enlists Will’s help in cooking, showing him exactly how to cook the meat properly and having him chop up vegetables. Will does his best, but it’s obvious how precisely chopped Hannibal’s look compared to his, frowning down at the offending onion.  
  
“I don’t think these are fine enough,” Will complains, looking over his shoulder to where Hannibal is working on a different counter.  
  
He comes to the rescue quickly, using a towel over his shoulder to dry his hands before he inspects Will’s work. He stands just behind Will, peeking over his shoulder, presence incredibly loud as he checks — Will knows other students find him to be an intimidating professor, and he certainly feels that to be true while he silently judges Will’s work.  
  
“You are doing just fine,” he says, though he steps closer, using his right hand to nearly envelope the hand Will’s holding the knife with. His left hand guides Will’s to hold the onion steady, and the contact has Will blushing to almost an absurd degree. He can feel the heat of it all the way down his neck, swallowing roughly as Hannibal’s chest presses into his back. “Pay close attention, Will.”  
  
He nods, nervous of his own voice as he keeps his eyes trained on their hands, paying not enough attention to detail and definitely too much to the light hairs over the back of Hannibal’s knuckles.  
  
“Does the scent irritate your eyes?” Hannibal asks, now looking at Will’s profile from the awkward angle, “you are very flush.”  
  
“Yeah,” Will lies, embarrassed, “but it’s alright, it isn’t too bad.”  
  
“Resilient boy,” Hannibal chuckles, and Will really thinks he might just die from the rumble pressed right up against his back. Arousal burns in his belly as shame wraps around his throat, “for your first time, you’re doing very well.”  
  
Yeah — Will spends the entire evening swallowing his lust and greedy thirst for as much of Hannibal’s praise as he can get.  
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
“It’s awfully late,” Hannibal says after dessert, a smile on his face as he watches Will eat his second cupcake. “Considering you’ve had some wine with our meal, would you be opposed to staying in one of the guest rooms tonight?”  
  
Will chokes around his last bite of cupcake, hand automatically reaching out for said wine glass to help dislodge the cake from his throat.  
  
“Hannibal,” he swallows roughly, a bit too drunk to pull his eyes away from the man’s lax posture like he normally would force himself to. The broadness of his shoulders is really something— “I dunno, it’s Monday tomorrow.”  
  
“Yes,” he smiles, and Will wonders if the man is a bit drunk himself. Perhaps he’s too drunk to notice the way Will’s eyes drag down his exposed throat to where the top two buttons of his shirt are undone, showing very little skin but enticing Will all the same. “What is so terrible about that?”  
  
“We have school,” Will explains, shaking his head and grinning, “I mean, I have school— I guess it’s just work for you.”  
  
“Then we can make sure we get there on time, hm?”  
  
And that is the end of the conversation.  
  
Will feels a bit of arousal just from the way Hannibal has decided what he’ll be doing without really consulting him much at all — it isn’t inherently sexual, but it’s really doing something for Will’s tipsy brain.  
  
He’s led upstairs, still carrying his wine glass so as to not waste the delicious alcohol, and follows Hannibal into what he thinks is the guest room. Will looks around the room, at the grand bed in the center, immaculately made with plush pillows and a soft looking comforter. Paintings line the wall that doesn’t have a massive window, and there’s a fireplace across from the bed.  
  
It takes a bit too long for Will to realize this is actually Hannibal’s bedroom.  
  
The man himself had disappeared into another door inside the room, coming out with a handful of clothes that he offers to Will. He takes it with his free hand, trying not to show on his face how pleased he is to be given some of Hannibal’s clothes to sleep in.  
  
“Since this is a bit of an impromptu overnight visit, if you’d like I can wash your clothes so you have something to wear for tomorrow,” Hannibal says as he pushes open the door just across the hall from Hannibal’s bedroom, flicking the lamp on the bedside table on. “Though I’m sure I could find something for you to wear of my own, in any case.”  
  
Will’s mouth fills with saliva — he feels greedy and is absolutely loving it.  
  
“Whichever is easiest for you,” Will answers, taking in the furnishings of this new room. It isn’t as big as Hannibal’s, but it is definitely more extravagant than Will’s own bedroom in the house he shares with Jimmy and Brian. “I don’t mind either way.”  
  
“Wonderful, then,” Hannibal smiles, gesturing to the room at large, “there’s a bathroom just down the hall. I’m perfectly agreeable to you making yourself at home while you stay, Will. Whatever you may need, my room is just a few steps away.”  
  
“Thank you, Hannibal,” Will grins, downing the rest of his drink and holding his clothes tighter to his chest. Hannibal reaches out, plucking the glass from between his fingers before turning and heading back towards the door.  
  
As much as Will wants to protest this and beg Hannibal to stay and spend more time with him, the opportunity to slip into Hannibal’s own clothes that he got from his own closet and probably _wears_ sometimes is just as tempting, and he’s got the nervous, excited jitters about it.  
  
“Have a nice night, Will,” he pushes open the door but stays in the walkway, “I’ll be awake very early for my run, but I’ll likely be back before you wake. Perhaps if there’s enough time I’ll sort out breakfast for us.”  
  
“If you keep cooking for me I might just have to stick around,” Will jokes, and Hannibal smiles back with his pointy teeth and warm eyes.  
  
“I’m sure you wouldn’t hear me complain,” he says, and Will feels so cared for he could just melt. “Goodnight, Will.”  
  
“Goodnight, Hannibal,” he murmurs, watching until Hannibal’s closed the door all the way. He waits a beat — maybe two, before he unfolds the clothes Hannibal had given him and brings them up to his nose, taking a deep, hungry inhale. It smells so much like the man, it’s like he’s still in the room.  
  
He flings his own shirt off, tossing it to a chair in the corner of the room before he slips on the soft red sweater Hannibal gave him. He’s swimming in it, really, what with Hannibal’s size being more broad and tall than Will’s, but that is certainly not something he minds in the slightest.  
  
Slipping his jeans off, he tosses those to the corner chair and realizes that Hannibal hadn’t given him any pajama bottoms — just the big, cozy red sweater. He wonders how he hadn’t noticed, but his excitement had likely blinded him from the details. Not to mention the wine clouding up his head.  
  
Not bothered, Will grins as he pulls the covers back and falls into bed in the oversized jumper absolutely drenched in _Hannibal._ _  
__  
_Flicking off the light on the nightstand, Will snuggles easily down onto a bed much larger and much softer than his own. He brings his hand up to press the too long sleeve against his nose, inhaling once more as his eyes fall shut, uncaring of much else than Hannibal and how stupidity doted on the man makes him feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so so so much for reading!! I promise I'm trying to get these out faster but life is a lot sometimes!! any comments or kudos mean the absolute world to me, and I do post a bit on Twitter @subwillgraham if ur interested ~ ily thank u for reading ~ next chapter we have the wedding which I'm Very Excited to write 👀 look forward to it !!
> 
> (also ps rly quick, I had finished editing this completely and accidentally backed out of the page so !! I did my best but if you see any mistakes pls know I probably know too and will fix them when I have time to RE edit 🙃)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading i hope you will stick around for the rest of this fic !! please be nice to me, i'm very nervously excited to post in a new fandom. you can follow me on twitter where i post lots of hannigram and will do lil sneak peaks as this is written, i'm @subwillgraham and i'm very new to fannibal twitter so be gentle <3


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